Little Boy Frollo (rewrite)
by villains-doitbetter
Summary: A more detailed insight as to the childhood and upbringing of Judge Claude Frollo. Maybe he was a good but troubled boy, whose innocence was wrecked along the way. What transpired that made him into the vindictive gypsy-hating Minister of Justice that we have come to know? *Disclaimer: not some Mary-Sue, I swear!
1. Intro

**My readers deserve better, and I want to give them that. Disclaimer: Don't own anything, property of Disney and Victor Hugo, and so on and so forth and what have you...And I implore you: if you don't like it, please no flaming.**

It was late in the day in Paris as its citizens were waiting for it to draw to a close, packing up their belongings and wares, ready to call it a day. Post-workday lethargy was falling over the dense city, creating a relaxing calm over the city. A rustic half-timbered building stood gazing across the square towards the menacing Palace of Justice as its doors flew open and a dozen or so boys—all of noble birth—piled out as the school day had concluded. They all walked away, chatting and laughing as they made their way home, glad to be done with the monotony of hours of listening to their professor drone on and on about one poet or another. These boys might go off to play off the day's work—maybe wrestle, throw stones, or board games with each other.

However, one boy did not have this leisure: he stopped outside the doors, looked over his shoulder quickly and then took off in a sprint. Not long afterwards, a trio of bigger and taller boys headed in the same direction after him.

The boy being chased was about ten years old, very skinny and short compared to the boys chasing him. His shoulder-length black hair flew as he ran; he possessed very thin, distinctive lips; dark, gray eyes; and a small bend in his nose, making it aquiline.

He twisted through the throngs of peasants crowding the square eager to get home, dodging every cart and peddler nimbly, breathing intensely as his heart pounded furiously. Finally shaking the three off his trail, the boy headed down an alley and crouched behind some discarded crates.

Trying to catch his breath and clinging to the dozen or so pieces of parchment and a thick book at hand, he lay in hiding for a few moments before deciding that the coast was clear. Heading back down to exit the alleyway, all seemed well until he found himself pinned to the ground the next moment, the wind knocked out of him and his face planted against the cobblestone street.

"Martin, I got him!" called the lean brown-haired boy, holding the smaller one's arms behind his back and pressing his neck down. The other two appeared and ran towards them, both smiling wickedly as they examined their victim.

"Get off of me!" the small boy yelled, fruitlessly trying to squirm free.

"Nice work, Dominique!" called a shorter boy, he and another jogging towards the strife.

"Don't worry, Dom, he likes eating dirt!" said a pudgy blond-haired boy. He picked the fallen parchment pieces and handed a few to the tall third boy. "Don't you, Claude?" With that, the tall boy pressed the small child's face further against the ground, coughing from the pressure on his neck.

"Don't!" cried the small boy, still locked to the ground, the stones burying into his face. "I need those for class! Unlike you, I _did_ my work!" The boys' professor had assigned them to copy down his reciting of the numerous works by Ovid and Virgil in Latin, something Claude excelled in.

"Oh, don't worry, Claude. You'll get them back…as soon as we're done with them!" Martin remarked, giving a satisfied chuckle. "Come on, Jacques. Leave him there, Dominique." With this, the boy released Claude and joined his friends as they turned to walk way, leaving the small boy dirtied and without his assignments.

Claude picked himself off the ground and dusting the dirt from his black doublet, impulsively commenting under his breath, "You'll get yours."

Martin stopped and turned to face him. "What was that?" he asked, raising his brows at him, stepping towards him.

Claude himself was shocked at this act of defiance and stood there, unable to respond and frozen in place. Before he could move or say anything, he found his arms locked and his body pushed up against a wall. Martin landed a hard punch to the boy's stomach, followed by another, then another.

Claude could not find the strength to scream out in pain, feeling the wind being knocked out of him with every blow, causing his face to turn a feverish red as he wheezed. His scrawny arms were being crushed by the immense grip by Dominique and Jacques. He just wanted the pain to stop—wanted to run away and find a hole to hide away in.

Martin eventually tired himself out and ordered the two to release Claude, throwing him hard against the stone pavement. They walked away laughing triumphantly and exchanging remarks:

 _"He doesn't put up much of a fight, does he?"_

 _"What a girl!"_

 _"Maybe we should just call him Claudine!"_

Claude was on his bruising knees, hunched over and holding his stomach while he coughed and gasped for air. He pushed himself up and rested against the wall to see the damage done today, hoping it would not be as bad as other days.

He examined the numerous cuts and marks on his arms and could feel one over his cheek. Looking at his shirt, Claude realized that it had been torn during the scuffle. _Oh, no,_ he thought worriedly, knowing full well that his father would be less than pleased at this.

He turned his attention to his schoolbook dotted with notes from months of lectures— _books were not exactly inexpensive_ —which had been carelessly thrown into a nearby puddle of water. Claude walked over to fish it out, his expression grimacing as examined it. He studied it and saw that the parchment was soaked, making much of the ink run and much of the text illegible. _Great,_ he thought pitifully. _Now another thing to worry about._

He slunk down against a nearby wall and buried his face in his hands, thinking about the impending doom that lay ahead once he arrived home. If it was not enough that he would be punished for tearing another shirt, his father would be livid when he saw Claude's schoolbook ruined. His father was already a man with a quick temper, and if he saw what happened to his son's clothes and book…Claude shuddered as he thought about what lay ahead. Silently, he began to weep, tears rolling down his cheeks thinking about the pain to come.

Not long after, a young girl walked down the street before stopping to see what a young boy was doing sitting in an alley by himself. She looked about the same age, dark tanned skin, gold bracelets dangling on her wrists, and carrying a satchel… _a gypsy girl._

She approached Claude. "Excuse me," she softly greeted. "Are you alright?"

Claude looked up startled and wiped away his tears with the back of his hand. "Yes," he said dryly then clearing his throat, trying to retain what little dignity was left. "I'm just fine."

She noticed the cuts on his face and arms. "You need help," she concluded. "Come with me."

He looked up into her bright brown eyes, some apprehension stopping him.

 _They are nothing but a band of disloyal, thieving dogs!_ His father's words rang in his ears. Studying the gypsy girl's face, Claude was struck how sweetly she looked at him as she held out her hand to him. Taking her hand in his, she helped him to his feet. He grabbed his damaged book and followed her as she led him out of the alley and down the street.

The girl led Claude all the way the Seine where she ordered him to sit down, the cold dirt bank a kinder change from the rocky street. From her satchel she pulled out a white rag. Dipping it in the water then wringing it out, she brought it to his face and began to clean his wounds.

Claude was dumbstruck by the young girl's actions, considering it was not often that he was shown a random act of kindness. Being the son of the much-feared Minister of Justice undoubtedly led other children to keep their distance from the boy. Usually he left his wounds to heal on their own, preferring to keep to himself under normal circumstances.

Pulling out a fresh linen strip, the girl bandaged a deep cut on his arm and finished. "There," she said. "All done."

"Thank you," Claude said lowly, still looking very down. Studying her work, he then asked, "How did you know how to do this?"

She simply shrugged. "My family wants us to be able to take care of ourselves. When someone gets hurt, we take care of each other."

Claude averted his gaze from her, staring at the ground as a response.

"What's wrong?" she asked, somewhat intrigued by this quiet boy.

"Thank you very much for what you've done, but my father is still going to kill me over _this_ ," he showed her the long rip in his shirt.

She looked at it and said, "I'll fix that." She pulled out a needle and some thread from her bag and effortlessly began stitching, much to the boy's surprise, raising his eyebrows in response.

"By the way," Claude began amicably. "What's your name?"

Her bright brown eyes gleamed at him for a moment and responded, "Celeste."

He smiled at her and said, "I'm Claude. Claude Frollo." Her smile and kindness allowed the boy to relax a little, as he was used to constantly being on edge in wondering who was on his tail, ready for confrontation.

"Nice to meet you, Claude. How old are you?"

"Ten, almost eleven though," he answered. "What about you?'

"I'm ten too!" she said, beaming at him. "Now, why is your father going to "kill you" over a tear in your shirt?"

Claude took a deep breath and explained, "Because he says he hates buying me more clothes every time I ruin them in a fight. And my book," he picked up the wet leather-bound volume to show her. "Is useless now. And he'll be even angrier when he sees that I ruined a book he bought me."

"What were you fighting about?" she asked, still sewing. "My mother say boys are always fighting about something."

Claude looked away briefly, ashamed in his answer. "These boys from my school…they like to pick on me because they're bigger than me and I am the top of my class, so they take my work and copy it. And also, because my father really doesn't care what anyone does if _I'm_ the one getting beaten."

"That's awful," she said, giving him a sympathetic look.

"My father says that I wouldn't be in so many fights if I just _fought like a man_. I know that's one of the reasons he hates me." Confessing this long-standing notion made Claude ball his hand in a tight fist, wanting to keep himself strong and collected.

"I'm sorry, Claude," sadness etched in her words. "How could someone hate their son?"

Claude sighed. "Well...I don't win fights, I don't have any friends, he says I'm an embarrassment, and he says I'm a cursed child—he says I'm the reason he and my mother don't have any other children." Claude looked off to the Seine flowing before them, almost refusing to look at the girl. Inside, he was fighting the tears that were building up in his eyes.

Taking a deep breath to collect himself, he looked back at Celeste, asking, "Would you tell me why you decided to stop and help me?"

Her hazel eyes met his, softly answering, "Because it looked like you needed it."

He looked at her with slight suspicion. "You don't want anything in return? My father says that gypsies are always looking for money." He instantly regretted his remark, cursing his father's words for escaping his lips.

Celeste answered, "Not at all. Your father's wrong: we need money to live too, so we go out and earn it." She sewed up the last few stitches and examining it. "There, now that one's done too."

Claude looked at his shirt and how the tear was barely noticeable. "Wow…thank you so much Celeste," he said, giving her a grateful smile. He looked up to see that dusk was approaching.

"I think I need to get home now. I would really like to see you again though," the boy said hopefully, standing up and helping her up as well.

She smiled at him and replied, "Well then, see this bridge right here?" she pointed to the one just left to them.

"Pont Notre Dame," Claude confirmed, glancing at the bustling bridge.

"I'm usually here during the day," Celeste continued. "You can come and see me after class if you want."

Claude's face lit up at her invitation, instantly and eagerly replying, "I will. Tomorrow, I promise."

"Then I'll see you tomorrow," extending her hand, he shook it happily. "Goodbye Claude."

The two parted ways, Claude grinning from ear to ear the whole journey home.

X

Pushing past other Parisians, Claude entered the family manor situated on Rue Tirechappe, west of the Seine. A more affluent neighborhood large enough to contain the family home, the manor had been standing here for almost one hundred years. It was large enough to hold even a stable for the Minister's horses. Inside the large house, its servants bowed courteously at the master's son as he passed through the door.

" _Claude, is that you?"_ A high, melodious voice called, Claude following it.

"Yes, Mother," he said, entering the parlor room and seeing the young woman sitting and sewing a tapestry, her blonde curls strewn around her shoulders.

The thin pale woman looked up at her son, bright blue eyes studying him. "Come here," she instructed, motioning to him. The young woman inspected the boy's cheek, noticing the scratch. "Did you get into another scuffle today?"

Claude darted his eyes away from her. "Just a small one," he reassured.

His mother shook her head at him. "At least your father isn't returning tonight. Now go wash up, supper is to be served soon."

Making his way upstairs to his room, Claude breathed a sigh a relief that he would not have to see the Minister today, and hopefully tomorrow. But his mind went straight back to the girl he met today.

 _Celeste…_ he had never heard a name so exotic, _so captivating._ Washing his face in the basin in his room, he thought about how much he could not wait to see her tomorrow.

 ***A/n: Yeah so this baby REALLY needed a facelift** — **I could not in good conscience continue to let this crap litter FF. Besides, I think my writing's gotten better since this was written, and the original is just filled with plot-holes and not enough descriptive writing and historical accuracies. Anyway, it's gonna get deleted soon anyway. It needs to be reworked so I can move forward with the other stories. Don't you judge me!**


	2. Chapter 2

"Say it, you big baby!"

"No!" Claude shouted, trying fruitlessly to tear the larger boy's arm from his neck. Martin had wrapped him in a headlock and now the dozen or so other boys circled around them, watching them in amusement as they waited outside their class building.

The autumn temperature was beginning to drop, the rest of the city of Paris warming their hands and starting to bundle more firewood in preparation of the cold. The boys simply pulled their hoods over or blew on their fingers to keep warm.

"Admit it," Martin taunted, increasing the pressure on Claude's neck. "You fight like a girl—tell everyone right now!"

Panting, Claude glanced up at his schoolmates huddled around, laughing and nudging each other as they watched the small boy writhe as he tried to free himself from Martin's hold.

"Afraid to open your big mouth _now?_ " Martin quipped, digging his fat knuckles into Claude's head. Claude groaned in pain and humiliation as the other boys whooped and egged the spectacle on, enjoying their pre-class ritual. "Come on, Birdface, just say it!" Martin ridiculed. "Say you fight like a girl!"

How he hated that name— _affectionately_ given to him by his classmates due to his crooked nose. Claude fought harder to free himself from the other boy's grasp, trying to claw his bully's arm away.

"Maybe we should throw him into the Seine—then he'll say it!" Dominique suggested.

"Moron! Then he'll sink and he'll never say it!" Jacques said, pushing his friend. " _Birds_ don't swim, remember?"

As Martin tightened his hold on the boy, Claude's black hair fell messily over his eyes which were fixed on the stone pavement.

" _Say it, say it, say it!"_ Suddenly he listened painfully as his classmates began chanting.

" _Frollo, Dupreaux! Stop that this instant!"_

The boys all fell silent as they turned to see their tall, grim-faced instructor gliding towards them, even Martin and Claude glancing up. The man looked down at the two locked in their struggle, Martin letting Claude go and Claude falling back against the cold ground.

"All of you, inside _at once!_ One won't learn a thing if they waste their time on foolish horseplay," he bleakly ordered, dark robes billowing around him as he entered the building.

As the rest of the boys dispersed and entered the classroom, Claude got to his feet and rubbed the back of his sore neck before picking up his parchment pieces thrown about. Unlatching the book, he stuffed the parchments in and headed into the class. Another day of battling his tormentors…

X

"' _Nunc omnis ager, nunc omnis parturit arbor_ '," the long-nosed professor read aloud from Virgil's _Eclogues_ from his seat and podium. "Meaning: _'Now all the fields, now every tree in bloom'_."

The twenty or so boys sat on hard wooden benches in the cold room, copying down the poet's words in their original Latin on wax tablets or parchment. A small window let in the minimal amount of light for the boys to read. Claude always sat in the front, diligently scribbling down every word on sheets of parchment with a quill, paying no heed to the cramping in his hand. He also tried to ignore the constant pelting of miniscule rocks at his head by his classmates in the back of class, peering behind him to see their mocking grins and snickering.

"' _Nunc frondent sylvae, nunc formosissimus annus_ ', or, ' _Now the woods are green, now is the fairest of the year_ '," the teacher continued, rising from his seat and pacing while he read.

Once the teacher turned his back and droned on about Menaclas and Damoetas, Claude quickly picked up one of the stones laying by his shoe. Locking his sights on Martin, Claude raised his hand ready to fire the rock across the room…

Without warning, his thin wrist was seized by the slender, gaunt man, book still in his hand. "Looking to disrupt my class, Frollo?"

Rock falling from his hold, Claude looked apprehensively at his instructor, eyes darting from his face back to his rivals then to the long birch stick in the corner used for discipline.

"Um, no, Monsieur Laurens, not at all," he carefully answered, averting his eyes from the man glaring down on him.

Releasing the boy's wrist, the man said, "Since you are feeling so bold, tell me…what does, _'Ab Jove principium Musae: Jovis omnia plena'_ mean?"

Tapping his fingers on his knee, Claude mentally translated the words at breakneck speed, wanting to avoid further reprimand. "I believe it means… _'With Jove my song begins'_ , and… _'Of Jove, all things are full'_?" He looked back up at the instructor leering at him in impatience.

"That's correct," he flatly replied. "Now pay attention," the lector ordered, smacking the boy in the back of the head. "I expect better from you, Claude. We wouldn't want to inform your father about any _mischief_ , now would we?"

Claude said nothing, only glowering at Martin and his friends in the back and ignoring the looks of the other students.

Glancing out the small square window, the lector then said, "Well, seeing as the day is almost at a close, you are free to go." With that, the horde of boys collected their belongings hurriedly and bolted for the door, relieved to be done with another day.

Sneaking around the side of the timbered building as to avoid his enemies, Claude quickly set off for Pont Notre Dame. He passed by the row of slanted, dingy houses, searching through the crowd for his friend.

Scanning, his eyes settled on a small figure seated against the wall of one of the houses lining Pont Notre Dame, instantly recognizing and dashing towards her with youthful alacrity. Near her were two elder gypsies, whom Claude presumed to be her parents. Seated on an old straw mat, they were surrounded by wicker baskets as they called out towards the passersby.

"Celeste!" the boy eagerly called as he neared his friend who jumped to her feet. He glanced back at the two gypsies still trying to get the attention of strolling citizens before asking, "What's going on here?"

"My family weaves baskets and sells them," Celeste answered, gesturing towards them. Judging by the amount of baskets still sitting, Claude could deduce that people were hesitant from buying from gypsies. "We try," the girl remarked, as if she read his mind.

Suddenly Celeste took Claude's hand and giddily said, "You should meet my family!" She pulled him forward, the boy's eyes widening.

The gypsy man and woman paused from their attempt to catch customers and looked to the gypsy girl hanging onto a pale, timid-looking boy clutching a book at his side. "Mama, Papa," Celeste addressed, Claude lingering behind her. "This is Claude—the _gajo_ boy I was telling you about!"

 _Gajo?_ Claude wondered as the gypsy parents eyed him carefully. He simply raised his hand in a weak wave and smiled sheepishly. Celeste's mother gestured her forward, whispering something to the girl who studied her awkward friend. Claude began to grow nervous under her family's scrutinizing dark brown eyes, sensing suspicion.

"He's not, Mama—I promise!" the girl said before turning back and taking Claude by the hand to lead him away.

Passing through the hordes of busy citizens going about their day, the two walked back to the Ile de la Cite. Breaking the silence, Claude said, "They don't like me, do they?"

Hazel eyes darting from him back to the cobblestones, she shrugged. "They think you might be _prikaza_ because you're a _gajo_."

Puzzled by her gibberish, he had to ask, "What does that mean?"

"They think you might be bad luck because you're not a gypsy, but I told them you weren't. Don't worry about it." The girl then turned, inspecting the seam in a shoulder of his doublet torn. "And what happened to your shirt?" she inquired.

Examining the tear, Claude pursed his lip at it. "A few boys from school wanted to have some "fun" before class this morning." Looking at the passing townhouses and shops of Paris, he quickly decided to change the subject. "So that was your family?" he began, eyeing the late-day hustle and bustle winding down. "Do you have any siblings?"

"Just my brother Moises. You said you don't have any brothers or sisters?"

Claude shook his head. "None. It's just me, but my father wishes they had more heirs. For some reason, they just can't have more kids. I told you, my father says I'm a curse and the reason they can't."

"Well, if I were you, I wouldn't want anyone else to live with your father if he's that bad," Celeste commented.

Claude thought for a moment for his answer. "At least he spends most of his time at the Palace of Justice and only stays in our family's home a once or twice a week. I always hear people say that "unspeakable" and "sinful" things that happen at the Palace. I don't know what they mean, but I guess it's better than him being at home."

"What does he do at the Palace of Justice?"

Heartbeat quickening, Claude caught himself before getting into an uncomfortable topic of discussion. "He just works there," he carefully answered.

"By the way, what happened with your book?" Celeste asked, changing the subject much to Claude's relief.

Claude sighed heavily. "Well, my father didn't come home yesterday, so I was able to hide it."

Celeste nodded before asking, "What's your mother like?"

Claude shrugged. "She sews, prays, talks with other nobleladies—that's about it. She lets my father handle things when I get in trouble. She wanted me to go a cathedral school but my father wouldn't have it, so he sent me to a "secular" grammar school, I think. And he didn't want me to have a tutor because he says that I need to learn with other boys. He says if I went to a school that had girls as well, they would be a distraction to my work. But at least if I went to a cathedral school I wouldn't have to put up with those three apes that never leave me alone."

 _"Hey Claudette! Where are you heading off to in such a hurry?"_ The familiar voice suddenly stopped Claude dead in his tracks, Celeste looking at him in confusion before turning around to see who could spook her friend so easily.

"Speaking of apes…" he muttered to her under his breath. He turned to find Martin and his friends making their way towards them, each with a sadistic smile across their faces. Trying to keep himself composed (especially in front of the gypsy girl), Claude asked, "What do you want, Martin?"

"We just wanted to stop and say hello," he replied smugly before turning to Celeste. "And who's your pretty friend?" inching closer to her. "You got yourself a girlfriend, Frollo?"

"What? No!" Claude responded, nervously looking back at the gypsy at his side. "She's not…"

"Leave us alone," she commanded, sneering at the blond boy.

Martin was taken aback from this and commented, "Look at that—a _gypsy_ telling us what to do! My father said they're nothing but trouble!"

His friend Jacques interjected, "Well if she's friends with Frollo here, then she can't be that much of a threat. She probably puts up the same kind of fight too!" Dominique seized Claude tightly by the arms while Martin inched closer to her.

"Then maybe we should teach her how to respect someone who's _above_ her!" Martin was now too close for comfort for Celeste. "Gypsies should keep their mouths shut, since _we_ have power over _you_."

Claude struggled to break free and shouted fruitlessly, "Leave her alone, Martin!"

"Yeah?" he asked looking at the restrained and squirming boy. "And what happens if I don-!"

 _WHAM!_

Martin cried out in pain and gripped his face. Blood seeped through his fingers while his hands muffled his cry. Jacques, Dominique, and Claude stared with disbelief as Celeste stood triumphantly with her fist shaking at her side.

Martin fell to the ground groaning as Jacques stepped towards Celeste, ready to take a swing at her. But she was too quick, dodging his punch and sucker-punching the boy in stomach, making him collapse. Dominique looked at her, then at Claude before taking off like a bat out of hell.

Celeste grabbed Claude's book then his wrist, ordering, "Come on!" before racing through the streets once again. The two sped towards the town square, constantly glancing over their shoulders to make sure Martin and company were not following them.

"I can't believe you did that!" Claude cried as he trailed behind her. Arriving in a quiet alleyway, Claude stopped to catch his breath before asking, "Where did you learn to fight like that?"

"Well when you grow up as a gypsy, you have to be able to defend yourself. It's really nothing. You know how to fight, don't you?" she asked him.

Claude's cheeks turned red and he gave a sullen look, rubbing his arm. "No, I don't…Why do you think I'm always running from those three? I don't know how. My father… _no one_ , really, ever taught me how to fight."

"Oh," Celeste replied awkwardly, rubbing her hand that was still sore from that punch. She knew boys were very prideful about their combat skills, but to hear a confession like Claude's was something else.

And just as uncomfortably, Claude then asked, "Could you…maybe teach me a few things?"

Celeste shot him a surprised look, eyebrow rising. "You won't be embarrassed by learning how to fight from a girl?"

Claude shook his head. "I just want to fight— _and win!_ "

She gave him a sincere smile and answered, "Sure. So let's get started."

X

"Remember to keep your back straight—you can't win a fight slumped like that," Celeste directed, adjusting Claude's stance. She had been helping him with his basic stances and fighting techniques for over an hour now in the vacant alley. However, as good of learner he was, Claude was picking things up…rather slowly. It had taken quite some time in learning just how to punch correctly.

"And keep your chin down!" She tilted his chin in the proper direction before continuing. "But the most important key to fighting is about being quick. You can't just be strong, you have to be able to move and avoid getting hit."

"Well, getting hit seems to be the only thing I know," Claude commented darkly, almost humorlessly.

"That's why you keep your arms up to block," the gypsy girl reminded him, adjusting his arms.

"Then I will remember to do that next time they corner me after class," he replied sarcastically, his thin arms falling to his sides.

"I'm serious, Claude," Celeste retorted. "You wanted me to help you."

"I know! Can't I just kick him in the privates and run?"

"No, hitting someone like that is a dirty move," she retorted. "That's what I heard."

"And if they try to make me eat dirt again?" he asked bitterly. "They seem to enjoy making me do that."

"They made you eat dirt?" Celeste asked in astonishment.

"When they push me to the ground, sometimes they won't let me up until I do. So what should I do then?"

"Maybe then you can," she jested, Claude smiling wryly at her. "If your father doesn't like you getting beaten up, why hasn't he taught you to fight?"

Leaning against the building wall, Claude answered, "He says that the only way a man learns to fight is by getting in more fights. He said if I haven't learned to fight by now, I never will."

"What about your other friends?"

Claude scratched his head, considering his answer. "I, um…I don't really have any friends."

"Really?" she asked in half-disbelief, leaning against the building wall as well and folding her arms. "I don't think that's true."

The boy sighed heavily. "It is. When people think you're a know-it-all and your father is a powerful man, nobody really wants to be your friend."

"How powerful can your father be that others don't want to be your friend?"

Kicking a stray rock with his shoe, Claude unsurely answered, "Well, my father is sort of the, um… _Minister of Justice_."

Celeste's eyes widened at him. "Wait— _Minister_ Frollo? That's right—your last name, I forgot!"

"I was afraid to tell you," Claude awkwardly admitted, looking up at the overcast sky.

"Doesn't your father hate gypsies?" she asked, eyes scrutinizing him.

"…A little," he said, fidgeting with the sleeve of his shirt. "But I don't." His pleading gray eyes locked with hers, sincerity coloring them. "And I hope we can be friends and you can still teach me to fight. Please, Celeste?"

The gypsy girl smiled softly at him. "Alright, I think I can," Celeste said, gripping his shoulder lightly. "It just takes practice. And once you learn, then you show Martin and his friends a thing or two, then they'll never bother you again!"

"Good, because I want Martin to know what it feels like to get knocked to the ground." Claude pictured his adversary writhing in pain, crying for mercy as he himself stood victorious. How he would love to taste the success of conquering his longtime bully… _to finally be in control…_

"Slow down," she said, smirking. "You still have a lot to learn."

As much as he hated being told what to do, he did ask for her instruction and considered the logic in this advice, taking note of it. "Perhaps you're right."

"And hopefully someday," she said, standing before him. "You'll be quick enough to avoid _this_." Poking at him hard in the forehead, she slugged him in the arm with enough force to hurt, but not enough to leave the bruises he was accustomed to.

Rubbing at his arm, he smiled playfully at her and with more sarcasm said, "Well, thank you for that. I will remember that one."

"Does that Martin kid really only beat you up because you do better than him in class?"

"He's twelve and I'm smarter than him, so I think he's jealous," Claude elaborated, somewhat smug. "I'm certain that's why he picks on me. That is why I _need_ to learn to fight—if I can defend myself, he might just leave me alone."

"Just keep practicing," she reminded him again. The gypsy girl looked up the orange and pink Parisian sky. "Maybe we should call it a day, it's getting late anyway."

X

Claude walked home, feeling both sore and satisfied from what little progress he had made during his combat training with Celeste. In his elation, he had failed to take into account how dirty his clothes had become after the day's events, not to mention the evident rip still adorning his shirt sleeve. When he realized this, it dawned unto him the consequences that lay ahead of him once he arrived home. Now he was tired, filthy, and worried, not trembling from the cold air but the panic building up in him. If there was any hope, the Minister would still be at the Palace of Justice.

 _Perhaps Father hasn't returned home yet,_ Claude prayed hopefully. _If I make it home before him, he won't see what happened…_ With this in mind, Claude high-tailed it, running down Rue Tirechappe and arriving at the family manor.

Taking a deep breath, Claude took the key from his belt and opened the door, stepping into the large house. When he walked in he heard the subdued chatter of the home's maids, as well as his mother Jeanne-Marie talking and laughing with another noble-woman in the main parlor room.

"Claude!" He was disappointed that she had noticed him trying to sneak up the stairs to his room, cursing to himself. "Your father is waiting for you in his study," she said almost grimly.

Taking a step or two down and meeting his mother's gaze, he agitatedly asked, "He's…he's _here?_ Right now?"

"I suggest that you don't keep him waiting." With her statement, his mother suddenly could not bear to look at her son, a sense of grief and anxiety washing over her as her husband's insistence, she was encouraged not to be a "devoted" mother, the Minister preferring to discipline their son himself. Even the other noblewoman sitting across from her fell silent, knowing full well what was to follow.

Claude's eyes widened in fear. Now he knew that he was in trouble and there was no avoiding it, especially with the evidence all over his clothes. He nodded to his mother and turned away to head up the stairs, each step feeling like a weight.

He headed down the long hallway, his heartbeat increasing with every step and feeling the air tightening. He wanted nothing more than to just turn around and never stop running. Claude stopped and studied the door before knocking, terrified and dreading to hear his father's deep voice reply, "Enter," to which he reluctantly and shakily obeyed.

Nicolas Frollo's study was adorned with books of all subjects, a trait obviously inherited by his son. The walls were covered in bookcases, maps, and artwork of saints and biblical scenes, but with the absence of a typical crucifix.

He was a heavy-set man, slightly balding but with a thick black beard, and his own hawk-like nose resembling his son's. Like many of his class, he proudly adorned his rings and chains to remind others of his wealth and power. As Minister of Justice, with a known reputation of ruthlessness and bloodlust; just one look caused many to back down in fear for their own lives— _a giant among ants._

"Claude," Nicolas began sternly, then taking a drink of wine from his goblet as he stood in front of his desk. "One of my associates informed me that you were fighting with Martin Dupreaux again, yesterday _and_ today. Is that true?"

Claude gazed at his father, knowing he could not look away, lest he wanted to repeat the lesson about making eye contact. Fidgeting with his fingers, he simply replied, "Yes sir."

Nicolas put down his wine, his hands behind his back, and approached his son. "And how did this fight end, might I ask?" his tone condescending and frustrating.

"I…lost." Claude spoke timidly and nervously. His classmates loved sharing the stories of his pain with their fathers, who in turn tormented the Minister with news about his son's abuse.

"And why did you lose?" Nicolas mocked, his own gray eyes burning into Claude's.

Taking a silent breath and shrinking back , Claude answered, "Because…I did not fight hard enough."

"You _did not fight hard enough_ …And why not?"

Claude could feel tears building up but used every ounce of strength to hold them back, considering tears usually led to an increased punishment. The last thing he wanted to do was fan the flames against someone whose violent temper cause more pain than anyone should know.

 _Why are you crying?_ He remembered his father saying. _I thought I was raising you to be a man—not a little girl!_

Claude exhaled and mechanically responded with what he knew his father wanted to hear, "Because I am weak."

"Because, you are _weak!_ " Nicolas roared, a vein bulging in his temple. With that said, he slapped his son hard across the face, knocking him to the ground. Claude still fought back any visible signs of further "weakness," not willing to do endure any more than necessary.

His father feverishly continued, "No matter how many times someone takes a swing at you, somehow you _never_ learn to defend yourself! Impossible to believe that _I_ sired _you_ —are you even aware of the humiliation I face at the hands of my peers because of you? One after the other, all recounting their own sons' tales of how you refuse to fight back!"

Claude hadn't even had time to realize the blood running from his nose when suddenly Nicolas grabbed the boy by the arm and pulled him to his feet. Not letting go, he dragged Claude out to the hallway and down the stairs, the boy nearly tripping numerous times and struggling to break free.

"Since you fail to do so, I suppose your only redeeming quality is that at least you can take a beating, can't you?" Nicolas asked lividly, his face a bright red. Claude struggled to respond, not knowing if it would be the wisest thing to do.

"Answer me!" he screamed at his son, dragging him out to the back of the house, the maids, his wife and guest keeping their gazes averted.

"Yes sir!" Claude responded angrily, the tears he fought to contain were now blinding him wincing at his father's iron grip on his arm. Nicolas picked up a long birch stick that lay near a kindling pile and grabbed Claude by the shirt collar.

"I suppose you have no regard for the clothes I provide you either. If you would fight back, you would not be ruining so many of them! But that doesn't matter to you at all, does it, you little ingrate?" With this, Nicolas pulled the back of the boy's shirt with great force, tearing it in two.

He pushed Claude to his knees, then on all fours and raised the stick high above his head. He brought it down hard like a blacksmith with a hammer, striking his son sharply and mercilessly.

 _WHACK!_ As it made contact with the boy's flesh, cracking hard against his young back. Claude gritted his teeth through the pain and collapsed to the ground, the torn sleeves of his shirt pooling around his thin wrists. His fingers dug harshly into the dirt as the pain seared through him.

"Until you learn success," Nicolas thundered. "All you will know is defeat! And I will _not_ stand for such shortcoming!" Forcing his son back up and taking another whack at him, the man showed no signs of any clemency—even as his son cried out in agonizing pain, doing his best to suppress the growing sobs that threaten to rip from his throat.

He continued this punishment before the birch stick finally broke over the boy's back and Nicolas finally ceased, his teeth bared in fury at his young son.

Claude lay on the ground, his face buried in the moist dirt and his eyes wet with tears that he finally allowed to be released. His father walked back to the house and tossed the broken branch pieces aside, not once looking back.

 _It's over,_ Claude thought relieved. However, he stayed on the ground for a few more minutes before finally gathering the strength to get up, throwing the ripped sleeves away. Weakly, he wiped away the dirt clinging to his face, smearing the blood trickling down from his face in doing so.

Picking himself up, he found himself collapsing again, his back stinging as though he had been torn to shreds. Stretching an arm behind him, he ran a hand over his back and examined how much blood covered it. Wincing through the pain, he limply dragged his way back to the house while the cold air stung against his tear-stained cheeks and marred flesh.

He found his mother bidding farewell to her friend before closing the door and turning to face her son. Her expression showed nothing, for she was used to how her husband disciplined their son, even though she was well aware that her ten-year old's body looked like he had been attacked by a pack of rabid beasts.

"Where's Father?" Claude asked drearily, covering his small torso with his thin arms, the smell of blood filling his nostrils.

"He left and said that he would return to the Palace of Justice," she answered dryly before turning to walk away, leaving her son battered and alone.

Claude limped up the stairs and entered his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. He threw himself onto his bed, burying his face in his pillow which became stained from his tears. As they continued to stream down his cheeks, he commanded himself to refrain from sobbing, from either the physical pain or the internal one, biting the inside of his cheeks to keep from doing so. The strongest emotions, though, were hatred and contempt at this so-called "weakness."

 _This is how you get stronger_ , he reminded himself darkly. _Feelings distract you from getting stronger—Father says to get rid of them. Feelings make you weak, and I cannot show weakness._

Crippled by the pain and tumultuous thoughts, he could feel himself falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.

He did not know how long he was out for, but he woke up to a burning sensation on his back, hissing at the pain and instantly assuming that his punishment was not over yet. He craned his neck, surprised to see his mother, soaking a linen in a basin of hot water and applying it to his wounds.

"It's alright, Claude," she cooed, cleaning all the dried blood away. "Sit up," she gently ordered as she helped him up. Claude raised his arms and Jeanne-Marie began to wrap him in bandages, his torso completely covered. "There we go. Now, you are going to have to sleep on your stomach for a while, just until it heals, understand?"

He nodded weakly, a bit confused that his mother actually helped him for once instead of having a servant tend to him.

Jeanne-Marie stood up and kissed her son on his forehead before taking the basin and cloths and turning to exit the room. "And remember to wash your face." Claude recalled the trail of dried blood and dirt. "Get some rest now," she reminded before leaving.

Claude stared blankly at the floor, confusion fading, and being consumed by growing anger inside. Anger towards himself, his father, Martin and his cronies…

 _It's their fault,_ he grimly thought. _They made me weak, but I will get my chance and make them pay…_

Closing the curtains surrounding his bed, Claude again fell into a heavy, exhausted sleep, wanting to disappear from the world.

 ***A/n: Kids are cruel, what can I say? Well no death threats or flaming yet so that's a good sign I think. I hope that no one ever dubbed this a Mary Sue cause I swear it's not! I had to change quite a few things for this to be socially and historically accurate. Some things will be changed as to avoid confusion with other stories in this fandom...please don't hurt me. Thanks for the reviews, they keep me sane!**


	3. Chapter 3

"Four!" Claude proudly pointed, swinging his thin legs from the branch he sat himself in. In one hand he balanced himself by the tree's trunk, and in the other a pouch of cherries he had purchased after Mass from the Place de Greve. Twisting around, he handed the bag of fruits to Celeste sitting in the branch across from him.

"Not bad," Celeste remarked. The girl took a piece of fruit into her mouth, taking out a cherry pit shortly after. With a fling of her wrist, she tossed the pit away, accurately landing it into a small dirt hole the two had dug into the ground. "Five," she said, a boastful grin on her face and her hazel eyes testing the boy.

What had begun as a light snack the two shared while on a stroll through the city quickly became a friendly challenge on Celeste's part.

" _I bet I can beat you in cherry pit!" she wagered, taking another cherry from the pouch._

 _Claude cast her a crooked smile. "Please, I could throw more than you in my sleep!"_

Now the two friends sat in the branches of an oak tree just outside the Abbey of Saint Victor, overlooking the Seine and flinging the small pits while the sunlight broke through the autumn gray and beamed down on them.

While his upbringing taught him to spurn such a crude and unrefined game, he was having too much fun to adhere to that old belief. Claude enjoyed the time he spent with his friend, the gypsy girl; finally having a companion to tag along with was a breath of fresh air, as opposed to those countless times spent walking through town in solitude and seeing other children happily play blind man's buff.

Taking another cherry pit from his mouth, Claude scoffed, commenting, "Show-off—but watch this!"

 _"Frollo!"_

Steadying himself against the trunk as he recognized the voice, Claude muttered under his breath, "Oh, no." He and the gypsy girl exchanged concerned glances, silently deciding their next choice of action. The two looked down to see Martin, who was sporting a bruise on his cheek and was heading towards them, followed by his two shadows.

"I told you he was here!" Jacques said, rushing to the side of his leader, quite short in comparison to Martin and Dominque.

Looking up at Claude timidly perched in the branch, the large blond boy shouted, "Hey Birdface, get down here! We're not done with you!"

Claude peeked over at the gypsy beside him, Celeste shaking her head at him.

"He can't stay up there forever," Dominique said, picking up a few small stones. With great dexterity the tall boy began shooting a few of them, beaning Claude in the chest and arm. Claude held out a hand and cursed under his breath, trying to shield himself from the projectiles pecking at him sharply.

"Either you can come down here," Martin ordered, taking a few rocks from his willowy friend. "Or we'll _make_ you."

Claude looked pitifully at Celeste and shrugged his shoulders in defeat, another rock bouncing off his forehead. Handing her the light pouch of fruit, Claude scaled down the tree, followed by Celeste shortly thereafter.

"Alright, Claude," Martin said, looming above him. "You think you can get your little gypsy friend to attack us and walk away scot-free? No way! You and me—right now! Unless, of course, you need your little peasant friend to fight your battles for you," he chided, shoving Claude in the shoulder.

"I don't want to fight," Claude calmly said, stepping back some. While he had trained with Celeste on his combat skills, he was still not entirely confident in his abilities.

The boy pushed him again. "Coward. Come on, Frollo—what would your little girlfriend here think?"

Claude's cheeks unintentionally reddened, gritting his teeth at the boy's mockery. Looking back at Celeste who nodded to him, he exhaled nervously as he pondered such an impasse. "Alright, Martin. I will fight you—but they can't help you," he answered, pointing to the boy's friends.

"Sounds fair," he agreed, his cronies nodding in agreement. "And neither can your girlfriend."

"Agreed. How about a wager?" Claude proposed, half-hopeful for a small meager bit of luck.

"What kind of wager?" Martin asked, suspicious of this unfamiliar confidence displayed.

"How about...If I win, you will leave me alone, as well as Celeste," Claude answered, gesturing to himself and her.

Martin and the boys chuckled at this. "Fine, Claude. But when I win, you can never have her help you in a fight with us, and…you'll do all of our classwork for as long as we want—every poem and canto in Latin!"

Screwing his face in uncertainty, Claude replied, "Fine, then." The two shook on it and Celeste, Jacques, and Dominique backed away to create a fighting ground. Inwardly, Claude's heart raced while he inwardly prayed, _Please, please help me…_

Pulling him aside, Celeste whispered, "Do you know what you're doing?"

Dusting his hands off, Claude answered, "I will be fine—after all, _you_ taught me everything!"

"I just don't want you to get hurt," she said, worry in her eyes as she held his arm.

Tearing himself away and studying his opponent whispering to his friends, Claude positively responded, "Don't worry about me."

The boys narrowed their eyes at each other, giving determined and goading looks. Claude cracked his neck a little before raising his fists, which Martin did too, the former trying to quell the trembling in his hands.

 _Show no mercy,_ Claude ordered himself, standing tall on trembling legs. _Make him pay for all those times he made a fool of you, for making you weak…_

Without warning, the large boy grabbed Claude by the neck and quickly put him in a headlock. As Claude worked his way to wrestle himself free, he glanced up and saw the other boys howling in laughter while the gypsy girl looked on with concern.

 _You must learn to fight your own battles,_ the Minister had scolded many times upon receiving word of his son's scuffles. Embarrassment adorned his expression as he continued such admonishment, _I cannot have a son who chooses to be a victim his entire life!_

"You're a worm!" Martin taunted, increasing the pressure on the smaller boy's neck. "A little know-it-all worm!" Martin relentlessly held him in place all the while Claude could feel his blood boiling inside, his face flushing red as rage began to fill him. Eyes catching the worried expression on Celeste's face, Claude suddenly felt a familiar but intensified sense of humiliation as his adversary and his friends laughed. It suddenly dawned on him… _what would Celeste think to see him tormented further?_ To be seen as weak in front of such a girl, he could not allow himself to be seen like this...

Claude could feel himself shaking as rage erupted, adrenaline suddenly coursing through his veins. _Make him feel the pain that he caused you,_ a voice in his head echoed maliciously, eerily sounding like his father's.

Without thinking, Claude unclenched his set jaw and viciously bit down hard on Martin's hand. He hissed in pain as Claude bit harder on the boy's hand and leaving teeth marks until Martin released him, Claude stumbling back. Martin shook out his hand, Claude taking advantage of the moment and springing to action.

Charging forward, Claude threw his entire weight at the larger boy, knocking him to the hard ground. Scrambling back to his feet, he looked down at Martin whose blond hair fell over his face messily as he struggled to get back up. Claude landed a swift kick in his side, Martin coughing from the wind knocked out of him.

He stood up above his bully, gray eyes blazing with vengeful vehemence and fists shaking at his sides. A feeling of explosive vehemence surged through Claude's body that caused his knuckles to turn white and breathing to intensify. The blood in his ears pounded as he disregarded any sense of logic that would have easily contradicted his next thought _: Destroy him…_ a most chilling voice insisted.

Without thinking, Claude reached out his hands and wrapped them around Martin's pudgy neck, pressing his thumbs upward to block the airways. He used his knees to crush his Martin's hands to prevent any further attacks. Martin began to turn dark red, a wicked grin stretching across Claude's thin lips as he watched in unforgiving satisfaction.

Everything seemed nonexistent, dreamlike almost, as he watched his nemesis fall victim to his wrath.

 _Wrath is a Deadly Sin,_ another voice suddenly rang devoutly. But his longstanding piety was drowned in a sea of vengeful bliss, and he was a god… _and what does a god do to those who have wronged him?_

Claude's mind flashed through the innumerous times he had been demeaned before his peers, severely castigated by his father, every one of them reminding him of his supposed inferiority.

 _The wicked shall not go unpunished,_ his mother and the priests of Notre Dame always warned…

How good it felt to finally be in control...

 _"Claude!"_

The boy snapped out from his blinding rage at Celeste's voice. "Claude, stop! Don't kill him!" she urgently said, Dominque grabbing her arm to keep her from interfering despite the fraught expression on her worried face.

Claude looked down at Martin, whose face was turning purple. He released his hands from his neck and left the blond boy gasping for air. He stood up and looked at his hands which trembled uncontrollably even more as he realized what he had just done. He stepped back and looked down at his adversary, unable to move even as Celeste came to his side.

Jacques and Dominique helped Martin up who still gasped for air, while Claude and Celeste stood back cautiously when they saw his beet red face twist into a livid scowl. "Get him!" he hissed, Jacques menacingly stepping towards Claude and pushing the gypsy girl down. Celeste bared her teeth at him, picking herself up and leering at him.

A spark of rage flickered in Claude's gut seeing another person try and harm his friend. Fist shaking and breathing hitched, Claude looked up the lanky brown-haired boy…

 _WHAM!_

A bloodcurdling cry pierced the air, the tall boy's knees buckling. Holding his hands to his nether region, his face was bright red, cheeks ballooning with air.

Celeste took Claude's hand in hers before urgently saying, "Let's go!" The pair took off, leaving the trio of Claude's classmates awestruck and in their wake.

They glided through the city, hair whipping around them as they ran through the lackadaisical city, who rested after another long week of work. Ignoring the shouts and curses of passersby, the pair constantly glanced over their shoulders to make sure they weren't followed.

When they seemed far enough away, she sat him down behind a nearby bakery. Claude was white as a sheet and his whole body still shook. He looked like his mind was million light years away as he stared ahead blankly with glazed eyes.

"Claude? Are you alright?" she asked softly, resting a hand on his shoulder, both concerned about him but also a little about his behavior.

Martin's purple face flashed through his mind, followed by a winded Jacques. Without looking at her, he meditatively replied, "I did that…"

"I know. You went a little crazy there, but-"

" _I_ did that…" he repeated aghast. Claude turned to look at her, jaw agape and face full of shock. The memory of holding all the power for once in his life was overwhelming… _To n_ _ot be the victim for once._

Celeste took his hand and held it tight. His shaking gradually slowed and he began to relax. She gave him a reassuring smile and threw her arms around him, locking him in a tight embrace.

To feel the comfort of another person was a somewhat foreign to him, but he nevertheless welcomed it. "Thank you," he said gratefully, not as agitated as a moment ago.

"What happened to you back there?" she asked quizzically, scrutinizing his pale countenance.

"I…I'm not too sure really," he muttered, eyes fixed on the evaporating puddles along the street. "All I know is that it felt good for somebody to actually be afraid of _me_ for once. To have power…it was amazing." That same vindictive grin reappeared over his face unintentionally as he played the moment of nearly killing Martin over again in his mind, followed by the boy's friend doubled over in severe pain.

Celeste looked disturbed over this confession, but asked, "Did you kick that one boy in…you know?"

Claude nodded before shrugging. "He pushed you down, Celeste. I don't know why, but I just kicked him."

"Will your father be upset?"

Claude looked off and thought for a moment, a fleeting look of uneasiness on his expression. "Maybe. He might be angry that I was fighting again, but he might be relieved when he learns that I won for once. That'll show him."

"Show him what?" she asked, puzzled.

Drumming his fingers on his knee, he answered, "I told you: he thinks that I'm weak and by winning fights, I'll become a man. The other day, he was furious about what happened with Martin, so he punished me… _again_." Claude looked ashamed at this information, a chill running up his spine.

"What did he do?" Celeste asked, but was somewhat hesitant to hear the answer.

"He…hit me," Claude said, bending the truth, looking away at the citizens of Paris passing by.

She looked relieved at his reply, expecting something much worse. "But lot of parents hit their kids, Claude. It's nothing."

He gave her a doubtful look and asked, "Did your parents nearly break your nose, or beat you with a wooden stick?"

She was taken aback by this, trying to picture such "discipline." Claude sharply continued, "Did your parents ever do _this_ to you?" Pulling his shirt over his head and turning his back to her, he showed her the accursed markings of his father's wrath illustrated on his small frame.

The young gypsy gasped with horror at the sight: Claude's back was strewn with scars, grimly resembling a skilled chef's cutting board. Wounds upon wounds, many of them etched deep, evidencing that this was something he was accustomed to.

"Claude…" she spoke nervously, eyes unable to look away from the sickening wounds. "I'm sorry. I didn't know that…"

He slipped his shirt back on correctly and turned to face her. "My father is just a very angry person. And besides, I'm used to it," he bluntly replied, getting to his feet and helping her up. "But enough about that, let's go."

The children walked solemnly through Paris, crossing the bank back to the Ile de Cite. The air being too thick with awkward silence, Celeste piped up, "And by the way… _I_ won at cherry pit." She nudged the boy lightly in the arm.

Claude playfully retorted, "If Martin hadn't have shown up, I would have won!"

The two continued to speak as they walked through Pont Notre Dame, where the tone shifted at Claude's next question. "You know Celeste," he began. "There's something I've wondered: where do you live?"

"Just east, on the right bank of the Seine," she answered, pointing in its general direction. "Near Saint-Victor, a few of us live there instead of the Court of Miracles." Suddenly the girl clapped her hand over her mouth, looking back at the boy as if in horror.

"The…" _Court of Miracles?_ " What's that?" he asked, confused by her behavior. The few passersby cast their strange glances at the children frozen in place.

She sighed. "It's a gypsy hideout. We only stay there if it's too dangerous in the city because there's too many people living there."

"Really? Where is it?" Claude inquired, now curious to know where to gypsies hid themselves away from danger. For years he had listened to his father wonder aloud in frustration as he mulled over where his prey had long hidden themselves from his grasp.

"If I told you, it wouldn't be a secret anymore. I'm sorry Claude, but I just can't say. Gypsies aren't supposed to tell outsiders—I wasn't even supposed to tell you right now. Promise that you'll keep it a secret!"

He rolled his eyes at his friend's hysterics. "I promise. But if it is a secret, I might just find out someday," he teased, smirking.

She chuckled and replied, "I hope you don't do anything to put it in danger."

"Never," he assured, grinning. "And thank you for everything today, Celeste."

"That's what friends do, Claude," she said, throwing her arm around his shoulders, throwing him a bit off balance as they walked. "Forget about Martin—it's still Sunday!"

"But I still have to see him tomorrow in class," the boy cynically stated, his expression glum.

"After all you did today, he might think twice from now on," she assured him.

Claude couldn't help but feel doubt at her words, after all, if it wasn't Martin then someone else was bound to make his life miserable in one way or another. Still, he smiled and nodded at his friend's confidence. Seeing that the day was growing late, he said, "I should be getting home soon, Celeste. I will see you tomorrow."

She bid Claude farewell before parting away, the day's events flashing again in his mind. But what struck him the most was the gypsy's good nature. It made his heart swell to think that she witnessed him reach an animalistic boiling-point, yet still sought to comfort him in the end. Claude hadn't even noticed the smile that tugged at his thin lips when he remembered his companion's soothing embrace.

Out of everyone in the world, he found a true friend in a _gypsy girl_ of all people. _Maybe Father was wrong about them,_ he thought optimistically.

Kicking a rock along as he walked, Claude suddenly heard the clop of horse hooves galloping down the street towards him. Moving aside, he was startled by the sudden appearance of a metal-clad soldier rearing his steed before the boy. Claude backed up from the snorting beast before turning his attention to the soldier riding it.

"Master Claude, the Minister of Justice requests your presence at the Palace of Justice," he stated, steadying the noble stallion who was gargantuan compared to the wiry young boy.

Claude looked past the rows of crowded houses in the general direction of the Palace of Justice, feeling as if a lead weight settled in his stomach. Looking back up at the soldier, he timidly asked, " _Now?_ "

"Now," the man stoically replied before steering the horse away and galloping down the streets, disappearing. The boy huffed, dragging his feet as he made his way towards his father's workplace.

Claude pushed through the wooden doors upon reaching the daunting monstrosity of a castle that was the Palace of Justice. Stepping inside, the boy crossed his arms over his frame when he found it to be much more frigid in its slate-gray stone foyer than the Parisian air itself. With the greatest reluctance, he meandered past the ambling court clerks and scribes to the large grand staircase, remembering where his father's study was.

The boy drifted through the vast Palace corridors, the large windows allowing in the sunlight, now covered up once more by the overcast. Rarely had the boy visited the inside of the building, his parents for the most part forbidding him from entering. This was his father's escape from his family, where here the only thing that existed was the law.

 _Certainly not a place for children,_ his mother drummed into his head at his young inquiry as to why they remained in Tirechappe as opposed to the Palace with the Minister.

Scanning over the torches hanging on the stone walls, Claude briefly recalled the rumors whispered by citizens as he passed by:

" _Despicable company the Minister keeps at the Palace—have you seen the filth entering at all hours of the night? Disgraceful!"_

" _If not there, then he's down on Rue Glatigny, neck-deep in harlots!"_

" _That poor wife of his…docile little thing, isn't she? And that poor son of his…"_

Shakily, Claude knocked on the door to the Minister of Justice's study, a gruff voice beckoning him to enter. The boy carefully stepped into the man's study—a dark ambient spaced lined with bookshelves, a bright roaring fire blazing in the hearth, and the gray daylight streaming in through the large glass windows.

Claude turned attention to the Minister of Justice sitting at his desk, conversing with a judicial clerk cradling a thick book in his hand. Glancing at his son waiting by the door, the Minister muttered something to the man before sending him off. Brushing past the boy and shutting the door, Claude stood in the pressing silence of his father's office.

Signing off another parchment piece, the large man seated locked eyes with the boy. Gesturing him forward with his fingers, Claude uneasily shuffled forward towards the ancient wooden desk.

The Minister folded his jeweled hands and leaned forward, forcing the boy to meet his cryptic gaze. "Another fight with your "friend" Martin today, I hear?" he asked, his tone unnervingly calm.

Ill at ease, Claude rocked back on his heels and rubbed his arm. He uttered, "I… I didn't mean to…" Wringing his hands together, Claude's eyes darted back and forth between his father and the window overlooking the city, Notre Dame in the distance.

"I heard that you knocked his lights out," the Minister rumbled, his bearded face stretching into a dark grin. "Dupreaux left to pick up an order on Rue de la Parcheminerie and told that he ran into his boy on the way back, and what does young Martin say?"

A chill ran down Claude's spine, his heart jumping into his throat and taking in a sharp breath—what if Martin let it spill about his friendship with the gypsy? _He will murder you if he finds out about Celeste!_ his inner voice screamed in terror, picturing his friend's sweet countenance.

"He said that you damn near choked him to death!" Minister Frollo explained, studying his fidgety son. "And let me say…congratulations, my boy."

Claude's eyes widened, brows rising as he snapped his attention back at his father. "What?" he muttered, bewildered and not sure if he heard correctly.

"Perhaps you are not as crippled as your name suggests. You finally learned how to stand up for yourself," his father replied, a strange expression adorning his harsh face… _pride, perhaps?_ "A little over the top, I think, but on the whole, you fought your own battle _and won!_ But in the future, do not try to kill your opponent. I don't need to have my son before the bench on murder charges."

Claude felt like his heart was ready to jump out of his chest—His father was actually proud of him, and _congratulating_ him as well! Was this some cruel, taunting dream? He did his best to keep his expression straight, even though the great sense of accomplishment overtook him.

Suddenly he remembered his friend, bringing him back to reality. "Did Martin say… _anything else?_ " Claude asked cautiously. "About the fight?"

The Minister leaned back in his desk chair, gold chains gleaming in the minimal sunlight. Looking down his own crooked nose at his son, he evenly answered, "Dupreaux told me that Martin said you kicked another boy… _in the nethers._ "

"I panicked," Claude quickly countered, recalling the wail of sheer pain when he kicked Martin's friend.

"You do _not_ do that," the Minister warned, pointing a finger. "In a fair fight, you only strike _above_ the belt, understand?"

Nodding, Claude unwittingly held his breath as he expected his father's usual reprimand and scorn any moment now.

"Well then, be on your way now," the Minister said, waving the boy away instead.

The boy blinked in surprise. _Oh_ , _thank you!_ Claude thought gratefully as he breathed a sigh of relief, turning towards the door. His small hand wrapped around the cold iron door handle before stopping himself. He turned back around, his father sifting through parchments.

"Father?" he spoke up, the man glancing back at him before going back to his documents. "Since many names have meanings…does _Celeste_ mean anything?"

"Why?" the man asked uninterestedly, not looking up.

"Just…curious, perhaps."

Eyes rolling skywards, the Minister thought it over for a moment. "I suppose it is derived from the Latin term "caelestis", which means "heavenly". The city isn't paying that lector to teach you Latin if you are going to shirk your studies—go home and brush up on it!"

"Yes sir, of course." With that said the boy left, thankful not to be sporting a new mark for his deeds. As long as his friendship with the gypsy girl was safe, that was all that mattered.

 ***A/n: Frollo fights dirty-I'm just saying, we've seen it, it's there. Again, I don't care how quiet the fandom has gone for awhile, writing keeps me centered.** **Still no hate for this story so far, I'm glad. I really am trying to capture that childhood innocence that I'm sure Frollo had. I'm aiming for better character development here.**

 **Thank you to Guest, you really understand where I'm coming from with this story. Here's to my fellow writers-Malakaii and Vixie1979-keep up the good work! And here's to Paul B. Newman's "Growing Up in the Middle Ages," which has some great info on games (like cherry pit) and life then. And a medieval map of Paris helps too.**

 **Review please (including my other stories) and Happy Holidays!**


	4. Chapter 4

Claude listened attentively as the priests incanted old Latin liturgy from the words of Matthew or Mark as he kneeled in prayer, hands piously clasped together. His family, along with the rest of the Parisian nobility, were always seated closest to the altar during Mass. The rest of the city attending Sunday service sat or stood back behind the elite.

As the words of the Gospel writers droned on, Claude studied the shimmering stained glass windows high above the cathedral's altar. Still, nothing could compare to the west side's magnificent rose window of Mary and Child. The Virgin had always been held high in reverence, particularly by Claude's mother, who directed her prayers to the Blessed Mother. _The strongest woman God ever set on His earth,_ by her words.

 _The Lord blessed her with a gift,_ she told her son, teaching him his prayers years ago. _Her purity was rewarded by being chosen to be the mother of Christ. The Lord protected her and the Holy Family during their flight into Egypt. She followed Him in all His teachings and miracles, His Crucifixion, and when He rose from the dead. You see, Claude, the Lord will protect you and give you strength if your heart is pure…_

Glancing to his side, his father's gaze was blank as he obliviously stared at the altar. Opposite the Minister, Claude's mother clasped her prayer beads in her folded white hands, devoutly mouthing her prayers along.

Claude, trying to be discreet, slowly craned his neck back to examine the rest of the parishioners gathered in the rest of the cathedral. His gray eyes flickered throughout the great hall, over the dozens of heads bowed in prayer and listening the Lord's word. Suddenly he noticed something for the first time in all his young life attending Notre Dame: _Not one gypsy…_

Nobles in their best attire of jewels, fur, and bright dyed fabrics; peasants in their least dirtied-by-field-work clothes. _But no gypsies_...

Without warning, Claude hissed in pain as he felt an aggressive tug at his ear. Looking up, he saw his father's eyes dart from the boy and back up to service, silently ordering him to pay attention. Folding his hands together again, Claude mechanically obeyed.

When Mass had finally concluded, the citizens swarmed for the door, many eager to relax for the rest of their Sunday. Outside, Claude continued to look for any trace of church-going gypsies, ultimately finding none.

The boy finally noticed some nearby in the square, sprightfully performing before the people, despite the late autumn chill. He seemed to have hovered too long when he felt his father quickly push him into the dark coach that waited for the family. Inside, Claude looked back out the small window, studying those dancing gypsies disappearing as the vehicle rolled away from the square.,

Inside the coach, Claude sat across from his rigid father, Jeanne-Marie taking a seat beside her son and brushing back his dark locks. His father stared out the window as the coach moved, Claude noticing a scornful sneer adorning his countenance.

Though these rides to and from the cathedral were usually spent in silence, Claude felt the urge to ask the question that still lingered in his mind. "Father?" he asked shyly, his eyes nervously glancing from his folded hands in his lap to the Minister. Nicolas Frollo turned to face his son, only raising an eyebrow as a response.

 _Maybe you shouldn't ask,_ the boy hesitantly considered. However, he felt that he needed some clarity on the subject.

"I…I wanted to know," Claude began. "Why are there no gypsies at Mass?"

Jeanne-Marie stayed silent, hoping that her husband would not lash out at Claude for a simple question. After all, the man was not known for sparing even his son from his fierce temper.

Unexpectedly the Minister laughed, stroking his beard as he looked back out the window. Claude was somewhat unnerved by this, gripping his hands tighter in slight anxiety as the man's voice thundered inside the confined space.

"Because," the large judge began. "They are not worthy of our God."

Claude stared blankly at his father, unable to speak (and afraid to, as well). Seeing the confusion on the boy's face, Nicolas continued, "They are _pagans,_ my boy—creatures that don't follow our God. They probably worship something with two hooves for feet and the head of a goat! They thrive on black magic and witchcraft…haven't you seen them in the square? Those little "magic tricks" of theirs are nothing but _sorcery_. That is why they refuse to accept our beliefs. And I have told you already to steer clear of their kind, did I not?"

"Yes, sir," Claude obediently muttered, barely looking at the man.

"And don't you forget that," Nicolas said, pointing a finger at him.

The rest of the ride back to Rue Tirechappe resumed its regular silence. Inside the household, it was only when the Minister retreated to his study upstairs did Claude feel he could speak again freely. Following his mother into their parlor, Claude suddenly asked, "Do gypsies really not believe in God?"

Jeanne-Marie took a seat, retrieving the unfinished tapestry beside her favorite chair. "Claude, I am sure that they believe in God, but they are probably not very _inclined_ to attend Mass."

"What does that mean?" the boy asked, crossing his arms. Did that mean they were afraid of attending?

Sighing, the pale young woman answered, "I would assume that they do not feel welcome. You have seen the treatment of their kind in the streets. To attend Mass would mean for them to enter a place where the majority is quite hostile towards them."

Claude chewed on the information for a moment, his mother resuming her delicate sewing-work. "So then, it's a matter of life or death?" he asked, hoping that that wasn't her implication. Perhaps he was merely overthinking it, or getting ahead of himself.

"In the grand scheme of things, yes," she demurely answered. "They must consider their own safety."

X

"So after he changed her back to a human, the emperor took off his crown and put it on the man," Celeste merrily narrated. She had shared with Claude various gypsy tales; today's story centered on a hen who laid diamond eggs.

As usual, Claude nodded as he listened along before his gaze was drawn to the Notre Dame cathedral. He had always been fascinated with its imposing majesty, being a safe haven for him his whole life as he walked behind his parents through the doors every Sunday. His question from Mass had drifted in his mind as he recalled those faces filling the church.

Impulsively, he asked, "Celeste, why do I never see gypsies going to church?"

"What?" she said, obviously taken aback.

Hoping not to offend her, Claude chose his words carefully. "My father tell me that gypsies don't deserve God, but I don't believe it. So why don't they attend Mass like everyone else?"

Celeste looked away, searching for an answer. She then evenly replied, "Because we don't need to."

Bewildered at this statement he asked, "You ' _don't need to_ '? What do you mean?"

"Gypsies don't have to go church or pray to be good people. It's just something a person should do no matter what. That's what my family believes," she explained. During their time together, Celeste learned how attached Claude was to his religion: he taught her some of his regular prayers, recounted the stories of some of his favorite saints, and described a few Catholic rituals.

Claude looked back at the church. "I've always been taught that everybody needed God to be a good person. My mother says that the smallest things we do wrong can be sins, and people will go to Hell as punishment. That's why we have to pray—so we can go to Heaven. You don't believe in that?"

"Well…it's more than just that," she said matter-of-factly, taking a sharp turn away from a fish cart being pushed by a bored-looking peddler.

"Then what is it?" The boy blocked her path, crossing his arms, and looking doubtful. Whatever it was that prevented the gypsies from going to church, he just had to know whether or not his parents' words were true.

Celeste found that her friend was unwavering, not going to move until he received an answer. "You want to know? People have always told us that our kind isn't welcome in Notre Dame," the gypsy girl elaborated. "My parents told me that we don't put our faith in a God that turned His back on us."

Claude was stunned by this revelation. His mother was right: safety was their main concern. He thought _, But God is all-forgiving, all-loving, isn't He? They need to see that._

"But it's the house of God—how can you not be allowed?" he questioned curiously.

"People don't like us because we're different, so we've been banned. That's why we don't go to church," Celeste answered, wearing an almost saddened expression.

"That's awful," Claude pitifully expressed, feeling a sadness well in his stomach. Christianity being the cornerstone of his life, it was staggering to imagine life without his faith. "Everybody should have the right to God. Has anyone in your family ever read the Bible?"

Celeste's hazel eyes averted his inquisitive gaze as the two continued to walk through the throngs of people bartering in the square. "We can't read," she answered bluntly. "They say it's only for merchants and nobles."

Claude pondered this information for a moment. Being from a family of high esteem granted both his parents to be excellent readers, himself learning at about four, by his mother's recount. "Well that doesn't seem very fair," he commented, sympathetic that Celeste, like so many of society, was illiterate.

"I wish more people felt that way." She turned away, continuing on their stroll past peasants arguing over prices.

"Wait," he said, grabbing Celeste by the arm. "There's something I want to do first." Taking her by the hand, Claude led her towards Notre Dame. Climbing its steps and opening one heavy door, he motioned for her to enter. After a brief look of hesitation, Celeste shrugged and entered the cathedral at his eager insistence.

Inside, Celeste looked in awe at the endless marvels that Notre Dame had to offer. Claude noticed her instant fascination over its grand architecture, taking in every arch and column in sight. Just like her friend, she was drawn to the rose window at the far end of the church, studying its two subjects surrounded by kings and prophets. The high vaulted ceilings could reach to the supposed Heaven itself, in her mind.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Claude asked from behind her, closing the door gently to prevent their loud resonance from echoing throughout the place.

"I'll say," she answered, still amazed by her surroundings. Claude was captivated by the sight of his friend covered in the colorful light pouring in from the endless spectrum provided by the numerous stained glass scenes.

He couldn't help but smile at his friend. "I can't imagine why anyone would not be allowed _this_." Claude led her to an empty pew near the rose window and motioned for her to sit down. There were a handful of other parishioners kneeling and sitting with their hands folding in prayer, one or two casting disapproving grimaces at the young boy and his companion.

"So why did you bring me here?" she quietly asked, taking a seat. There's was obvious discomfort on her face from the few scowls shot in their direction.

"First of all, I wanted you to see the inside of the church. Second: because I told you, Celeste, I have to do something. Wait just a moment."

Claude kneeled down and crossed himself before clasping his hands together and bowing his head. He began to go through his usual cycle of prayers:

 _Dear Lord, thank you for my health, my family, my home, and my education. Thank you for giving me the strength to defeat my enemy, but forgive me for my use of a Deadly Sin, Wrath. But most of all…_

Claude turned his head a little and glanced over at Celeste, who was still taking in all the sights of the cathedral.

 _Thank you for sending me my dear friend, Celeste. Please keep her safe, happy, and healthy. Amen._

He crossed himself again before rising up. "Ready to go?" he asked, snapping his friend out of her hypnotic state by the cathedral.

"Ready when you are," she replied, following him as he exited the pew.

Claude smiled as he looked back again at the magnificent stained glass before leading her back towards the entrance of the church. Before they could open the doors, the pair was stopped by a voice calling, "Young Master Frollo!" It was the church's newly-ordained Archdeacon.

"Hello, Father Augustin," Claude greeted politely, knowing to be extra-respectable towards a man of the cloth.

"My boy, I know you take Mass very seriously, but evening service doesn't begin for another hour," he said, pristine white garments standing out against the darkness of Notre Dame not bathed in dimming sunlight.

"Yes, I know, Father. I just stopped by for a moment," he quickly explained. "Oh, this is my friend, Celeste." He pulled her close to him, trying to break her obvious shyness. "I was just showing her the inside of the church."

"I see." Father Augustin studied the gypsy girl, not with harsh eyes like others had. "It's very nice to meet you, young lady," he greeted her cordially, smiling warmly at her.

Easing up a little, she automatically answered, "You too." Never having been inside the church, let alone spoken to a clergyman, she was not quick to let her guard down.

"So, am I to understand this is your first time visiting the cathedral?" Augustin inquired.

Nervously, she answered, "Yes, it is."

Augustin's curiosity stirred. "May I ask, why have you never ventured in here before, my child?"

Celeste quickly glanced at Claude before saying, "Because...my kind isn't allowed here."

Augustin was shocked at such an grim answer from one so young. "That's absurd!" he retorted, trying to keep the air light. "Everyone is permitted to turn to God and to enter His house."

"I told her that, Father!" Claude interjected, trying not to sound too smug, "Even gypsies should be allowed." Celeste quickly rolled her eyes at him, still not completely convinced of his and the Archdeacon's optimism regarding her presence here.

"That's very noble of you, Claude. Well then, Celeste, remember that you are always welcome here," the Archdeacon assured her. "Do not let the fears of others prevent you from entering Notre Dame."

"Thank you, sir," she said kindly. "That's kind of you."

"After all, the Good Book says to be kind and tender-hearted to others," Augustin responded, folding his hands before him, his ring and his gold cross pendant catching the light. "And who are we not to follow such brotherly advice? Now you two should run along since we must finish preparing for Mass."

"Thank you, Father," Claude said, pushing the door open and holding it for Celeste to exit.

"And Claude," the Archdeacon spoke up, the boy spinning around. "Don't get your friend into any trouble!"

"I wouldn't dream of it, Father!" Claude replied confidently, closing the door behind him. _When do I ever go looking for trouble?_ he thought to himself.

As the two walked down the steps, Celeste turned to him. "Thanks for showing me the church; it was nice. But why did you have to pray all of sudden?"

Giving her a enigmatic smile, he said, "There was something really important that I needed to tell God."

"Oh, and what was that?" Celeste asked, Claude following her.

He smirked and merely answered, "Never mind." He felt light-hearted, even as they passed numerous merchants cursing and bellowing out obscenities. He noticed a stray cat weaving its way under people's legs eager to snatch any dropped goods.

As a mercer walked by with his cart of cloths, Celeste then asked, "Claude, why do you care so much about gypsies going to Mass?"

"Well," he began. "All my life I've heard that gypsies shouldn't be allowed to go, but never explained why until now. And now that I have a gypsy friend, I wanted to share with you something I love, Celeste, which is the church."

"That's sweet of you." She patted him on the shoulder. "You're probably the only one who wants us to."

"Does this mean you'll go to Mass now?" he asked hopefully, his thin lips turning upward in a smile.

Looking back up at the building, she simply said, "Maybe. But here's something you should know about gypsies: we don't do well inside stone walls."

"Why not?"

"Gypsies have to be free and can't be trapped or we go crazy," she explained, her hand on his shoulder. "That's one reason we move from place to place."

"That explains a lot," he commented. "No matter what my father says, I still pray that more of you will be able to go to church someday."

"You have a lot of problems with your father, don't you?" she remarked, a dry sense of humor that could easily match his own sarcasm.

"That's why I hope I never become like him!" he declared as they shouldered through citizens chatting away.

"That reminds me!" the gypsy girl piped up, stopping and reaching for the pouch dangling at her side. "I brought something for you!"

Claude's eyebrows rose as her small hand dug into the pouch, hiding the contents closely. Opening her hand, Claude puzzledly examined the object: a cord woven together into a homemade necklace, which held a small, smooth rock through a perfect hole in its center. "What is it?" the boy bluntly asked, still staring at it before collecting it into his hands.

"This is a gypsy amulet," Celeste explained, pointing to the accessory. "This rock here is called a _witch stone_."

Flinching, Claude pushed the amulet back towards her, as if it had burned his fingertips. " _Witch_ stone?" he haltingly repeated, looking apprehensively at the charm.

"That's just a name, Claude. Besides, we find these rocks in the river. Look, this amulet will protect you when you wear it."

Hesitantly, the boy took the necklace from her, inspecting it in his hand. "Protect me from what?" he asked.

"Bad spirits and evil," she answered. "You know, any _prikaza._ "

Claude's eyes looked skyward, trying to remember what that meant. "Bad luck?"

"You're learning gypsy language!" Celeste jovially exclaimed, lightly pushing him in the shoulder.

Twirling the stone between his fingers, Claude smirked at the notion. "As long as my father doesn't hear me," he remarked. "So when I wear this, it will protect me?"

"Do have a coin purse with you?" she asked, Claude nodding in response. "You carry it in a pouch—a _putsi—_ and it'll keep you safe."

As Claude turned the small rock around in inspection, he couldn't help but feel honored to receive a gift from his friend. He thanked the gypsy girl kindly before stowing the amulet away in the coin purse.

 ***A/n: Thanks for reading and reviewing, it means a lot! Part of reworking this thing means looking up Roma terms and customs. Plus I had to elaborate more on Claude's religiosity. And I need to get this done so "To Live" & "Love You to Death" can go forward.**

 **The story of the hen that laid diamonds I got off of sacred-texts. The witch stone thing is also called a hag stone or adder stone. Oh, there's also a new Frollo backstory up: "Youth" by WingedPens. Check it out!**


	5. Chapter 5

The young gypsy girl glided through the streets, easily avoiding any collision with passersby pushing their carts and merchandise. Claude sprinted after her, constantly stopping to keep from running into the busy citizens and quickly muttering apologies in his wake.

Through one of the alleys Celeste bounded forward, using some stacked crates to vault herself over a brick wall at the end of the alley. Claude paused and looked at the obstacle, catching his breath.

"Come on, slowpoke!" she called from the other side, egging him on.

With hesitance Claude uneasily climbed up the stack of crates, hoping that the wood wouldn't give out beneath him. He scrambled up and hoisted himself on top of the alley wall, looking down at Celeste. At her encouraging smile, he jumped down onto the hard pavement, gracelessly stumbling before regaining his balance.

" _Misto!_ " Celeste said approvingly, steadying her friend. "You're better at climbing trees, but enough practice and you'll be jumping off walls like any gypsy."

Dusting off his hands on his trousers, Claude followed his friend through the city streets and to the square. Numerous men pushed carts of lumber and tools, barking orders at one another. Dozens of people were hard at work assembling stages and raising multicolored flags and banners.

"Another year, another festival," Claude remarked as the town square was being prepared for the annual Festival of Fools. Soon the drab monotony of the Parisian square would be transformed into a hub of celebration and revelry. The days after it all were discussed endlessly by his classmates, himself unable to share in their interest as usual.

"Don't tell me you hate that too," Celeste said, nudging him in the arm, to which he just shrugged.

"They're not much fun for me," he replied seriously, gray eyes studying his surroundings of busy laborers hard at work.

"How? There's jugglers, music, dancing—everything!" she countered.

Her enthusiasm unfortunately could not stretch towards him, catching notice of a few performers nearby strapping on stilts. "The whole thing is just silly to me," the boy explained. "I know everyone else loves it, but I've never enjoyed it."

"Oh, lighten up!" She threw her arm around his shoulders. "Tell you what: this year, you're going to enjoy the festival—that's a promise."

"Is it?" he tested, shoulder slumping as Celeste clung to him as they walked through the toils of local carpenters assembling the venue.

"Yes it is." She grinned at him. " _Gypsies_ know how to have fun at the Feast of Fools! You could learn a few things from us."

"I'll believe it when I see it," he laughed, inwardly tensing about the yearly festivities. After so many years of simply going through the motions of it all, he surely wasn't going to hold his breath for anything different.

X

As Minister of Justice, Nicolas Frollo and his family were obligated to attend the Festival of Fools. Usually he let his wife and son go about their business, while he mingled with other nobles (or sneaked off for some afternoon philandering). His wife and her fellow noblewomen would go and admire the work of the local artisans for sale, and their son would go and preoccupy himself with the rest of the celebration (usually moping about.)

Before letting Claude go off to explore the festivities, he grabbed the boy by his arm. Looking at him darkly through his own ominous slate eyes, the Minister sternly instructed, "Don't do anything _stupid_ , do you understand?"

The boy nodded his head in response before slipping off to find his friend. He pushed and twisted through the sea of drunk and merry Parisians, who laughed and enjoyed the array of entertainers: fire-eaters, musicians, jesters all surrounding him in one colorful, lively atmosphere. However, Claude could not help but feel uneasy in this environment, for _anything_ was possible at the Festival of Fools.

Preferring to stay out of the heart of the excitement, the boy carefully trailed along the houses lining the edges of the square. Unwaveringly he looked on with little enthusiasm as some began angrily poking finger in each other's chests, much too blitzed to care. While he watched in interest as the altercation escalated, he suddenly felt a hand clamp over his mouth and one of his arms locked by the other person, his heart leaping into his throat as he muffled a protest.

"Surprise!" Celeste loudly greeted, releasing him and laughing.

Spinning around and frowning at this sneak attack, Claude irritatedly responded, "That wasn't funny, Celeste. You nearly scared me to death!" The hordes of happy citizens crowding and towering around him didn't help to ease his discomfort either.

"I was only kidding with you," she teased, lightly punching him in the arm. "Well, let's go have some fun!" Before he could voice anymore of his doubts, Claude was dragged back into the festival and through the mass of people. Shouts and music mingled in the air, almost deafening him as he and his friend shoved their way through.

Celeste pulled him to hear the songs and sonnets of almost a dozen minstrels, to which he simply disregarded with little interest. Hearing the high tenors of these men singing about love and romance nearly made the boy want to laugh at their expense. Jesters, jugglers, and dancers in bright, vibrant colors could not draw his attention either, much to his friend's chagrin. Seeing other children circle around them in amazement prompted him to brand them as fools.

"Is there _anything_ here that you might like?" she exasperatedly implored as they shuffled around the stands of food. Her friend's thin lips quirked to the side as he pondered it.

Handing the gypsy girl a bright red apple he had just purchased, Claude joylessly replied, "I'm sorry, Celeste, but I told you already that I've never enjoyed the festival. Maybe we should just…"

His voice trailed off when his dark eyes caught sight of a spectacle unlike any he had ever seen in his young life: a gypsy across the way blew out a gust of fire from the torch he held before him, the crowd around his applauding with amusement.

"What's _that?_ " Claude asked his friend, pointing towards the man bowing before his public while still holding the torch above his head.

"A fire-breather," Celeste said, following Claude as his attention was magnetized by the performance. She studied his draw to the event, and the way his entire disposition seemed to suddenly shift as he moved closer.

Claude gazed with fascination as the gypsy man took the torch at hand and raised it high above his head. Turning the torch upside down, the man opened his mouth and carefully placed the torch into his gullet, fire and smoke rising from his mouth like a chimney. It reminded him of the old folktales told to him about the legendary fire-breathing dragons.

There was something… _enthralling_ about the sight of these flames being so skillfully handled for the entertainment of others. _Fire…_ hellishly destructive in the wrong hands, and yet so beautiful and magnificent to behold. He had grown up watching his father's men hold fires to the feet of prisoners in the pursuit of confessions, and had been told of the intense heat that awaited in the bowels of Hell…yet the boy felt a draw to the element. Claude continued to watch with attentiveness as the gypsy continued to juggle and hurl the flaming torches with the utmost dexterity, unable to look away.

After what felt like forever, Celeste roused him from his hypnotized trance. "Come on. There's someone I want you to meet." Grabbing his hand, she led him away from the fiery performance before they ended up spending the rest of the day there. Even as he followed her, Claude couldn't help but look back over his shoulder at it. He had finally found something about this foolish event that he actually enjoyed.

Eventually, Celeste weaved him through the crowd to an alleyway where two gypsy boys stood and defaced the wall of a house with a crude charcoal drawing.

"Moises," Claude greeted one of the boys. He had already met Celeste's older brother, who merely nodded at him, still not completely happy with his sister's choice in friends. Claude turned his attention to the slightly taller boy, maybe a year or two older than him. He was evidently stronger compared to Claude and wore a mess of curly black hair.

"Claude, this is my friend Marcel," Celeste introduced. "Marcel, this is the Claude."

Half-heartedly shaking each other's hand, the gypsy boy then said, "The same Claude that Celeste is always talking about?"

Not feeling wholly at ease and keeping his guard up, Claude simply replied, "I suppose so."

Celeste turned to him and spoke. "Claude, Moises and I have to go and help our parents with the stand for a while, so I'm leaving you with Marcel. You two can get to know each other."

Warily eyeing the taller boy, Claude quickly said, "Are you sure that I can't come with you? I could help you and your parents-"

"It's going to be pretty boring," she countered. "Go enjoy the festival and I'll come find you later."

Despite the reluctance churning in his gut, Claude begrudgingly replied, "…Fine." Besides, he didn't want to appear unable of taking care of himself.

"Great!" she enthusiastically said, inside praying that the two would at least get along for the time being and not find some reason to kill each other…especially now that she knew what Claude was capable of.

Celeste turned to Claude and Marcel and bid farewell. "I'll be back later." Hugging Claude, she muttered to him, "Stay out of trouble, okay?"

"I'll try," he jested, Celeste pulling away from him. As soon as she took off, Claude felt the overwhelming awkwardness of being stuck with a complete stranger.

"So…" Claude nervously began, eyes glancing around the alleyway littered with empty wooden boxes and barrels. "How long have you known Celeste?" he asked, trying to be polite. Since he was going to be forced to keep company with his friend's comrade, he might as well make an attempt at trying to be amiable.

Marcel gave a half-shrug, still sketching on the poor townhouse's wall. "Pretty much our whole lives: born in the same caravan, our families are close and she's one of my best friends."

Claude nervously wrung his hands as he listened, eyes still shifting around uncomfortably as he was still unsure of how to speak to the other boy. Somehow he would rather be in the middle of the chaotic square boredly watching jesters than trying to make friends with one of Celeste's fellow gypsies.

Before Claude could make any more choppy attempts at small-talk, Marcel suddenly said, "I know whose kid you are."

Claude's gray eyes darted back up to meet the near-obsidian ones of the gypsy boy, suddenly freezing like a cornered animal before the armed hunter. "What…what do you…" he shakily stuttered, fidgeting with his fingers.

"You're Minister Frollo's son," Marcel darkly responded, an accusatory look in his eyes.

Claude's heart nearly stopped at the statement, causing him to take a step back. "How do you-"

"I've seen you before," Marcel interrupted. "Celeste goes on about how you're "different", and that you'd 'never do anything to hurt us'…but I doubt it. I know what he does to people like us, and I bet you're _exactly_ like him."

Instinctively, Claude's fingers brushed against the coin purse at his side, still holding the witch stone amulet given to him by Celeste. Straightening and attempting to color himself with bravado, Claude forcefully responded, "I'm _not!_ Celeste trusts me and I promised I would never hurt her— _and I won't!_ " Despite his assertive words, Claude couldn't help but worry that this boy could strike him down at any moment.

Marcel crossed his arms and studying the younger boy suspiciously. "I don't know why she would trust _you_ , but you're going to have to do a little more to get the okay from the rest of us. Then if she ever decides to bring you around our home, then you might be able to leave without your throat slit by our families. You can't just expect the whole caravan to accept you just because she decided to take you under her wing."

Eyes going back between the square alive in celebration and this new adversary, Claude half-confidently said, "She's _my_ friend too. She'll stand up for me."

"Yeah, and I heard she had to take down a few of your pals from school for you too," Marcel ridiculed, smirking at Claude as he continued to work on his drawing. "If there's one thing you should know about gypsy girls, it's that they're fighters. But I guess I'd need a bodyguard too if I were some scrawny beanpole like you."

"She taught me to fight on my own!" Claude bitterly pointed out, wanting nothing more than to demonstrate a few of the moves in his arsenal.

"Did she?" the gypsy boy mockingly asked. Tossing the bit of charcoal, he turned and paced as he tapped on his lip in thought. "You know, Frollo, she might be pretty impressed if you picked up another skill. One that we as gypsies pride ourselves on."

Despite feeling himself flush with anger, Claude steeled himself before he lost control of his simmering indignation. Evening his breath, he puzzledly asked, "What skill?"

Marcel moved back over to Claude and grabbed him by the wrists, making him even more mistrustful. "What are you doing?" Claude nervously asked, uncomfortable and trying to wriggle free as Marcel examined his hands.

"You'll do," Marcel said, releasing him. "Follow me, Scarecrow." He led Claude out of the alley, overlooking the crowd of boisterous spectators and turning to him. "I'm going to show you a few things on how to _really_ have fun here today."

Claude raised an eyebrow, irritated at the young man's mysterious words; now he was a little suspicious to find out what Marcel meant by "fun". "What are…where are we going…" he began.

"You see, Frollo, some of us don't live as well as you," the older boy explained, placing a hand on Claude's shoulder. "Some of us have to do things to get by."

"What do you mean?"

Reaching to his side, the gypsy pulled a sheathed poniard cleverly hidden at his belt. "Watch and learn." Marcel led him through the sea of people, whose attention was aimed at the various performers and spectacles riding in. Nobody seemed to pay any mind to the two boys squeezing past them.

Marcel walked up to a large man whose back was turned as he faced the parade of performers with everyone else. The older boy reached his hand towards the man's coin purse at his side and skillfully cut the cord on which it hung. He quickly pulled it off of the man without raising attention and slunk away, concealing the knife back. Marcel gripped Claude by the arm and led him off to another alley.

"Did you see that?" he proudly asked Claude while rummaging through the bag, letting the bright coins run through his fingers.

"You mean you _stealing?_ Yes, I did," Claude caustically answered, appalled at what he just witnessed. How could _this boy_ be a friend to his beloved companion?

Marcel rolled his eyes at him. "Look kid, I told you that some of us have to do things to earn money…even if that means getting our hands a little dirty."

Claude furrowed his brow at him. "That doesn't seem like "earning"," he responded, making a sound of disbelief. "Stealing is a sin—It's in the Commandments: ' _Thou shalt not steal_ '."

The gypsy boy simply in shrugged at the younger's piety. "Frollo, let me enlighten you on something: Not all of us take that Bible jargon as seriously as you. We do what we have to for survival. Besides," he said patting Claude on the back. "You should try it out."

"Why?" Pushing his hand off him, Claude dusted off his doublet indignantly. He was hardly persuaded by Marcel's logic as a tactic to convince him to do something so senseless.

"Because you never know when _you_ might need to pickpocket," Marcel reasoned, waving a hand towards the city assembled before them. "And the Feast of Fools is the perfect place to learn. Consider it both a skill _and_ an art form."

"I don't think I want to…" Claude hesitantly expressed, studying the happy festival-goers.

"Come on. Think of it as you taking from the privileged and giving it to the less fortunate— _us._ "

"I am _not_ stealing from peasants!" Claude argued. _Besides, I'm better than that,_ he reminded himself, remembering his father's instructions.

"How about this," Marcel began, scratching the top of his curly-haired head. "We'll pickpocket only off the rich, since they have plenty to go around. No peasants or beggars or anyone like that—just your family's well-off friends."

Claude stood there, still unmoved by Marcel's proposal. _Stealing is stealing,_ he repeated over again in his head. _Don't do it…_

The gypsy boy shook his head and chuckled. "Figures you couldn't do it," the gypsy snidely remarked. "From what Celeste told me, I thought you would have had more grit than this. I guess I had you pegged wrong."

Claude's anger continued to brew with Marcel's taunts, but he was doing everything to keep his temper in check. _Do not let him get to you, Claude,_ he tried to remind himself.

"I can't believe Celeste would actually be friends with _you_ ," he mocked, laughing to himself. "Poor girl—has to babysit some crybaby coward."

Claude clenched his jaw tight, finally having endured enough of this childish taunting. _You will not take this lying down,_ he hatefully thought. _Don't just stand here—defend yourself! Prove yourself…for Celeste._

"Fine!" he snapped, startling the gypsy. There was a dangerous leer in the Frollo boy's dark eyes as he accepted the challenge. "I'll do it."

Marcel grinned mischievously, tying the coin purse to his belt. "Great. Okay, look, you have skinny hands, which means they're probably nimble." Claude looked at his hands, now slightly embarrassed. "If they are, then you're less likely to get caught."

 _What am I getting myself into?_ Claude nervously asked himself as he listened.

"Come on, Beanpole, let's go find you a _generous donor_ , shall we?" Marcel instructed, grabbing him by the arm and leading him back into the crowd. The two studied the merrily-inebriated crowd indulged in the festival.

"Take your pick," Marcel ordered Claude, handing over the poniard and giving him a shove towards the square.

Claude's heartbeat raced as he scanned around, reluctantly searching for any wealthy patrons that might lend their coin. He clutched tightly around the knife's handle as he kept it close to his chest, praying that he would go on as unseen as before.

Through the sea of people, he then noticed a round man wearing a magnificent-looking purple shirt…all the while his purse hung there carelessly at his side, waiting to be taken. Glancing back at Marcel who patronizingly waved him away, Claude hesitantly dragged his feet towards the man through puddles of spilled beer, unnoticed by the other citizens.

 _Don't do anything stupid, understand?_ He could still hear his father's words echo in his head, reminding him that this could only spell more trouble should he get caught.

 _Coward…_ The word pierced him harshly, but spurring him on despite his unwillingness. Claude dreaded the thought of Celeste believing he was not worthy of being her friend. After years of skulking about as a shy outsider, he needed to keep the one friend he was able to find. For his own pride, he needed to prove that he was good enough to remain her friend—even if it did meant violating a strict code of conduct embedded in his beliefs…

He slunk towards the man, who was distracted by a pint of ale, heartbeat hammering in his ears over the deafening screams and ruckus of partying citizens.

 _What are you doing? This isn't right!_ his conscience badgered him.

 _But I am doing this for Celeste,_ he contradicted himself, devotion overpowering personal morality.

His trembling hand reached forward and cautiously lifted the coin purse up towards him. His heart threatening to leap from his chest as he raised the blade to cut the bag away. Despite the weight of its contents, the coins kindly stayed silent as he pulled it close to his chest. Holding his breath, Claude waited for the man to spin around and threaten to turn him over to the authorities.

 _But he did not…_

Claude hurried away, completely astonished at his luck with the prize he held, and yet it felt as though his fingertips were burning as he listened to the coins jingling over the screams and cheers surrounding him. He scrambled back through the crowd as he cradled the purse and knife, nearly tripping over himself.

 _What have you done?_ he suddenly realized, glancing down at the item he carried in his hands. _Claude Frollo, you are a thief..._

Making his way back to Marcel, he was greeted by the older boy's approving smile. "Well, I guess you did have it in you." Patting him on the back, he said, "Won't Celeste be proud of you! You can keep that money! A little trophy of sorts."

After handing him back the weapon, Claude backed up from Marcel and shakily uttered, "I have to leave..."

Brows knitting together, Marcel replied, "Go where? The festival just started-"

Not looking at him, Claude turned and promptly strode away, walking on the edge of the chaos of the festival. He could feel a knot violently twisting in his stomach as he made his way to Notre Dame, nausea building up inside him.

Brushing back his hair with a trembling hand, words of condemnation thundered mercilessly inside his head. _You've sinned, you've sinned—no sin goes unpunished!_ Claude could hear his mother's religious dogma resounding, not even bothering to pay any mind to the festivities around him. _You broke a Commandment! You know what Mother said: if you break one, you'll end up in Hell!_

Skittishly he looked up at the colossal cathedral nearby and automatically made his way for it. As he drew towards the entrance, Claude felt its saints and prophets' eyes looking down on him in accusation. Keeping his head down, he entered and shut the door behind him, feeling a wave of relief as the sounds of the crowd became muffled by the Notre Dame's thick walls.

Taking the coin purse, he looked inside it: the man he had stolen from was indeed very well off, as evidenced by the amount of money jingling together. But of course he wasn't going to keep it for himself at Marcel's insistence.

He turned his attention to the aged wooden collection box aside and shuffled towards it. Claude's father had told him that the most painless way to atone for any misdeeds was a few simple pennies—an instant method of erasing one's sins. _The universal language is found at the bottom of a treasure chest,_ the Minister informed his son, dumping some coins in the box regularly on Sundays.

Claude emptied the bag's contents into the box, the sound reverberating throughout the silent church. _At least it won't go to waste,_ he tried to console himself, although guilt still lingered and churned harshly in his gut. He barely even took note of the frigid air pervading the cathedral, too occupied with his troublesome thoughts. Wrapping his arms around his thin frame, he blankly glanced around the church.

What was he supposed to do now? He couldn't go back out there, not when he felt so disgusted with himself. _What will Celeste think?_ he immediately asked himself, doubting that she might understand. After all, she had known her gypsy friend longer and might just side with him—simply seeing Claude as some overly-devout… _coward_. He had done his best to be a good Catholic boy, and in one fell sweep he might have thrown it all away for the approval of another.

The daunting notion left a bad taste in his mouth as he dragged himself back towards the entrance of the cathedral before suddenly stopping again in his tracks. Staring down at the black and white tiles under him, the boy froze while his dark eyes lingered on the wooden doors. He couldn't simply rejoin the festivities as though nothing was amiss—not while everyone in town was brimming with celebration and he would be the small dark cloud of misery. And he certainly didn't want to throw himself into any more trouble with the likes of Celeste's friend.

He tilted his head around, taking in the cold comfort of the church before his eyes set on a stairwell in the corner far from the doors. Claude deduced that the stairwell led to the bell tower above; he had never seen anybody use these stairs before. Inquisitively, he crossed towards them, standing in the stone doorway and looking up at the winding ascent.

Everybody was out at the Festival, and the Archdeacon and other clergymen were likely tending to the church's upkeep at the opportune emptiness. Nobody would notice if he just slipped up there for a moment. Without another thought, his spindly legs were climbing the seemingly endless flight, only illuminated by torches mounted on the wall. The dark stairwell was much more frigid than the rest of the cathedral, he found.

After what felt like forever of mounting every step, Claude breathlessly arrived at the top of the bell tower, only to find another set of stairs, of wood this time. With a huff, he carried on up the next steps, curiosity fueling his trek upward.

His eyes widened at the sight: the bell tower was created into a makeshift loft, where he noticed a worn-out sleeping pallet surrounded by broken statues of biblical figures. Creeping slowly further into this place, Claude brushed his fingertips over the gargantuan busted stone head of a holy figure as he strolled through. He looked out from the high vantage point, down on the townhouses of Paris and across at the Palace of Justice on the other side of the Ile. The Seine still glistened in the dim sunlight from behind the clouds. He could hear the commotion of the festivities down below, expecting his stomach to churn at the sound of citizens' gleeful chaos, but feeling no such thing. Up here in this bell tower… _he suddenly felt safe._

It was as though up here in this Olympus-like height, nothing could hurt him. Here he could look down at the underlings enjoying their foolish delights, while he could simply hide away and they were all none the wiser of his shameful succumbing of peer pressure.

Perhaps he could just stay in the belfry until the festival drew to a close. When things began to wind down, then he could just slip out and find Celeste before the day was done. Besides, he was enjoying this solitude away from the noise. It wasn't as though anyone ventured up to this lonesome space…

" _What are you doing up here?!"_ Claude spun around to see a man in typical monk's habit and protruding jaw glaring at him, hands placed on his hips.

"No one is allowed in the bell tower—especially a child!" the old man ordered, striding towards a surprised Claude. Gripping the boy by the arm, the man forcefully pulled him along. "What are you even doing in Notre Dame? Everybody should be out at the festival! Now be on your way and never let me catch you up here again!" With that, the man released him and violently pointed back towards the wooden staircase, Claude hurriedly scurrying down and through the spiral stairwell.

Finally reaching the ground floor, the boy still glanced back at the stairwell's doorway, expecting the irked clergyman to be on his heels and ready to scold him further Refusing to move from his spot, Claude stood idly as he expected the man to come stomping down after him.

After some time of remaining planted and staring at the staircase, Claude found himself unsure of what his next action should be. It was still too soon to go back out there and rejoin the merriment. His eyes leered back over at the alms box, which still seemed to laugh at him for his mistakes as his small bit of penance lay at the bottom of the container.

Right now, he simply needed some peace.

Silently he made his way towards the area of pews, instantly kneeling. Placing his folded arms on top of the pew in front of him, Claude tiredly rested his face on them as he tried to gather his thoughts.

X

Without warning, Claude felt himself being nudged at gently, someone muttering for him to wake up. Startled, his eyes shot open and nearly fell backwards on his still kneeling legs, bumping his head against one of the wooden pews behind him.

Once they focused, his eyes immediately fell on Celeste before him. Kneeling herself, she clutched at his thin shoulder. "Claude," she said gently, inspecting her tired friend. "Are you alright?"

"Where am I?" he mumbled as he forced himself back up on his feet, trying to ignore the sudden disorientation as he hissed in pain.

"Notre Dame. I came back looking for you, but Marcel told me you ran off. I figured you might've come here," Celeste answered, standing back up.

Dizziness easing away, Claude leaned against the pew trying to regain his composure, feeling the sharp pins and needles sensations in his arms and legs. Celeste noticed the tension etched in her friend's expression with the turn of his thin lips into an anxious frown.

Leaning on the pew as well, the gypsy girl carefully asked, "What happened with Marcel?"

He kept his eyes away from her inquisitive hazel ones, focusing on the curling of his fingers to alleviate the numbness. "Nothing. Nothing at all," he faintly answered, refusing to recount his moment of weakness.

Celeste tucked a lock of her black hair behind her ear and inched closer to him. "Claude, I know you don't like very many people, but I don't think you would just run off like that. What happened?"

With a side-long glance, Claude was moved by the sincere concern on the gypsy's face. Inhaling sharply, Claude reluctantly answered, "Marcel, he…he made me go pickpocketing."

"He did?"

Despite the older boy's promise that the girl would be impressed by it, Claude saw that there was no such expression—merely surprise. He nodded, brushing his dark hair back. "I didn't want to, but…he just made me so angry! I don't know why I did it, but…" His breathing became labored as that same anger began to resurface, threatening to burst. "I didn't even want the money, so I gave it to the church. Celeste, I'm sorry about today—I…I just…"

His friend gently held his tense shoulder. "It's alright," she told him, trying to calm him. "You made a mistake, it happens."

"But I'm not supposed to _steal!_ " he hissed, teetering on the verge of collapsing. His fingers firmly gripped against the pew's edges. "I'm not supposed to go against God's Law! What if I end up going to Hell?!"

Celeste suddenly felt great pity for her friend: a good-hearted boy trained to fear eternal punishment as consequence for even the smallest wrongdoing being torn apart. It was no wonder he was so shut up from the world like a clam, and skittish as a deer.

"I don't think you're going to go to Hell for one bad thing," Celeste said, hoping that he wouldn't break under the weight of his anxiety. "At least you did something good with the money."

Claude shook his head in response, muttering, "It's not enough…" A flush of red brightly colored his usually pale cheeks as he spoke, his breaths ragged.

"Maybe you need to talk to one of the priests," the gypsy suggested.

The boy shuddered as he imagined the consequences that might follow if he admitted his mistake to someone of the cloth—but how else could he keep himself out of the lake of fire?

With some work, Celeste managed to drag her friend out of the pew and back out into the nave. She wasn't even concerned about the festival outside anymore, only that Claude feel better.

" _Claude? Is that you?"_ A familiar voice caught the children's attention, the two whipping around to see the Archdeacon approaching them. In his arms he carried an old wooden bucket, obviously having spent the day cleaning.

"And your friend—Celeste, was it? What are you two doing here? I thought everyone would be at the festival," Father Augustin pointed out.

"Sir," Celeste formally addressed, stepping forward and lightly pulling Claude by the wrist. "Claude needs to talk to you, if that's alright."

"Of course." Placing the bucket down, he turned towards the silent boy and asked, "What can I help you with, Claude?"

Barely looking up at the man's kind eyes, the boy meekly answered, "I…I need to confess, Father."

X

Resting his arms on his knees, Claude absent-mindedly watched as a parade of jugglers marched through the city, Celeste right by his side on the steps of some shop closed for the day. The two had sat in silence for awhile, neither one willing to break the awkward silence first. Not even gawking at whoever was ridiculous enough to be crowned the King of Fools could lift the boy's spirits.

Claude might have received absolution from the Archdeacon for today's events, but that didn't quell the animosity brewing in his heart. As if he needed another reason to despise this day, now he was sure that he undoubtedly hated it. But there was still one matter that was at the forefront of his mind...

"Celeste," he suddenly said, the gypsy titling her head to hear him. "When your friend was explaining to me about stealing…he made it sound as though your people _have_ to steal to survive. That can't be true…can it?"

The gypsy girl averted her eyes away from the boy, almost in shame. "Sometimes…we _have_ to."

He blinked at her, studying the solemnity on his friend's expression. "But…it's wrong," Claude rebutted, slightly rattled by her admittance. He had never witnessed her steal or even mention it—he couldn't imagine Celeste doing something so unethical. So the Minister was right—gypsies relied on thievery to make ends meet? He hoped that his father's prejudices were exaggerated opinions, and that they weren't true (as he witnessed today.)

Celeste's hair fell over her face, concealing it as she stoically remarked, "You've never been poor or had to live on the street, you wouldn't understand."

The boy looked around through the square, noticing a handful of gypsy people mixed with the rest of the city. He suddenly wondered to himself how many people might be getting pickpocketed that very moment. His father had taught him that they stole out of greed, while his friend assured that it was indeed out of necessity. And frankly, he was finding himself skeptical of both sides.

His heart heavy, Claude simply replied, "Maybe you're right." Inside, he promised himself that he would not soon forget this day.

 ***A/N: It's been a while cause of school, but thanks to all who've been reading! I have to keep up on historical accuracy, and throwing in some Romani language every now and again ("misto" is just an equivalent of "cool"), so I'm proud of how the redux of this chapter came out.**

 **Read and review, and again, thanks for reading!**


	6. Chapter 6

"The words of Prudentius are quite beautiful, so it would be in your best interest _not_ to skim through it," the instructor reminded the class of antsy young boys ready to conclude the school day. "And tomorrow we will discuss _Psychomachia's_ first part, so I expect you all to be prepared to translate it." The tall man waved the class away, the students scrambling to leave.

The boys pushed and ribbed at each other as they took off into the square. Claude stuffed parchment pieces of scribbled Latin into his book of notes. He locked the clasps shut and rose to follow suit of his classmates, but not without a few shoves and jeers from other boys.

Claude studied the late-afternoon sky, taking note that there was still enough time for him to find the book for tomorrow's lesson. He figured that he could probably finish a majority of it before class.

As he walked through the heart of the city towards the left bank of the Seine, the boy enjoyed the small bit of silence. It was relaxing after a long day of sitting on an uncomfortable, wooden bench and listening to the lector drawling on in Latin. Some days Claude found that he only needed to be alone with his books; he decided that he would find Celeste later on in the week.

The Abbey of Saint Victor resembled the famous cathedrals of France, its piercing spires and clergymen coming in and out. Claude passed numerous young men sitting around the abbey studying, chatting, not even noticing the young boy.

Navigating through the abbey's arched corridors, past young noblemen in fine, colorful robes and gowns, Claude found his way to the famed library of Saint Victor. Heaps of aged manuscripts lined its high shelves, which surrounded a long row of scarred wooden tables where students sat and pored over their studies. They stayed as long as the sunlight streamed in, wanting to read as much as time permitted.

"Looking for anything in particular?" Claude turned around to see an old man wearing a typical habit, his face deeply wrinkled.

Clearing his throat, Claude answered, " _Psychomachia_ , please."

"Ah, Prudentius," the old man responded, glancing over Claude's head, trying to recall where it might be. "Wait here just a moment."

To feed his son's thirst for knowledge, the Minister of Justice had arranged for the abbey to allow Claude the same access to their library as any young scholar. Claude could already envision himself among other students, buried up to his eyeballs in mountains of information once he enrolled at the University. However, that wouldn't be for some years and in the meantime, he was grateful to enjoy this luxury. (Especially since books never called him "worthless" or pushed him into fresh mud before class, proving they were much better companions than most.)

He heard the old man shuffle back towards him, a large book in his withered hands. Handing it to Claude, he remarked, "Remember to handle this with care, my boy. After all, I don't think the Minister would enjoy replacing this should it be damaged, am I correct?"

 _Like I don't know that,_ he snidely thought. Trying to disguise his frown, Claude simply answered, "No, he wouldn't. Thank you, and I promise I'll take care of it."

Exiting the stuffy library, Claude rolled his eyes. How he hated when someone constantly reminded him on things he already knew. He knew damn well that should he damage a borrowed book, his father would come down on him like a ton of bricks. It was no wonder he did his best to stay out of the man's way, and why Claude appreciated their limited engagement.

Making his way towards the nearby watermill outside the abbey, Claude found a quiet oak to rest under. He opened Prudentius's book and got to work.

X

Cradling his forehead in his hands, Claude mentally drilled himself on the ancient text. The book was not void of violent illustrations, drawing his attention before delving into the cautionary words of the poet.

For the past hour he had been eagerly absorbing Prudentius's words, forcing himself to retain every ounce of information like every other text he read. But now he saw that the sun was beginning to hang low in the sky, signaling him to hurry home before his mother began to worry. But maybe there was still time to find Celeste after all.

The boy looked a bit awkward as he walked through town, lugging the two books in his twiggy arms. Passing by tired citizens, Claude paused for a moment as he took brief notice of a pair of men obviously getting into an altercation. As he watched to see if it would unfold into an all-out fight, Claude was slightly disappointed when he saw a couple of his father's soldiers stepping in to break it up.

Before he could resume his route, Claude froze when his eyes fell on his father riding towards his soldiers on his faithful brown steed. The boy could see the Minister barking orders at both his minions and the two angry men.

 _Leave while you can—before he sees you,_ his inner voice nagged, ordering his legs to get moving. Turning around, Claude barely moved before he heard a familiar commanding voice, accompanied by the sound of horse hoofs.

" _Claude!"_

The boy's teeth grit and he immediately froze at the sound of his father's voice. As the Minister dismounted his horse, Claude submissively greeted, "Yes, sir?"

"Tell me, where are you off to now?" Nicolas inquired, gripping his son's shoulder tightly. A couple of his men had pulled up their steeds nearby, waiting their superior's orders.

Claude could not reveal anything on his after-school routine of visiting his gypsy friend, rather choosing to avoid any trouble with the temperamental judge. The boy quickly lied, "I was just on my way home. I, um…have some things to read—Prudentius's _Psychomanchia_ -"

"That's going have to wait," the Minister interrupted, taking the boy's books in his own arm and handing the horse's reins over to one of his men. "Come with me; there's something I want to share with you, my boy." Suddenly Claude found himself being steered away from his usual path, his father leading him in the direction of the Palace of Justice with a firm hold on his thin shoulder.

"It's time you witnessed some of the finer points of justice," the Minister weaved as he pushed the boy firmly. Claude kept silent, not quite sure what to expect from this unscheduled detour. "And I think you're finally old enough to see an aspect of my work that you might find very interesting."

He had hardly set foot in the Palace of Justice, and now here he was being shoved past numerous clerks pestering his father over some matter or another. As Minister Frollo pushed his son through the Palace's foyer, Claude worried what could possibly be so pressing that his father stole him away to bring him here. After all, they both knew that Claude's mother was firm in her belief that it was no place for a child. Down another corridor, father and son stopped at an aged iron door before the man unlocked it.

It simply squeaked open, and Claude was hesitant to venture down. "Don't idle," Nicolas coldly instructed before pushing his son through, the pair following the spiraling descent illuminated by torchlights. The air became dank and reeked of mold as they neared the bottom of the stairwell. Claude felt a chill run down his spine as his father unlocked another metal door where the rusty stench of blood wafted his nostrils. It made him nauseous, causing him to fight the urge to gag in disgust.

Inside this large space was a long wooden bench, spiked rollers at each end; the stone walls held iron-spiked chairs and clamps bolted in; the ground felt cold and damp (Claude suspecting that it wasn't simply water). Soldiers stood at attention like dogs.

His father spoke up, "Go and fetch the one in the fifth cell." Claude looked up to the man, his eyes asking him what was going on. "You see, Claude, when a person breaks a law, there are consequences to be faced, correct?"

The boy automatically nodded, directing his attention to the door on the other side of the dungeon: his father's men dragged a beaten-looking man through, spitting and cursing at them.

"Take this man, for example," the Minister continued, stepping forward. His men continued to fight the prisoner's attempts to break free, forcing him down against the bench. "He was caught trying to smuggle gypsies through the city gates, while the law stands that it is illegal to enter without a proper permit. And if he was abetting this one group, who knows how many he's helped before his arrest? He knows where there are more to be found, without a doubt."

Another soldier soon emerged with what some contraption that resembled a large metal boot, locking it around one of the prisoner's legs.

"And it is our duty as men of the law and God to uncover the truth," the Minister chillingly finished, a cold smirk stretching over his round face.

Claude took a few steps back uneasily, backing against the dungeon's exit door. He watched morbidly and unable to look away as they tightened the screws around the leg brace, the prisoner huffing and puffing as the pressure increases around his poor limb.

"Now," the elder Frollo began, crossing his arms over his chest. "Where did you escort these gypsies from?" His men tightened the screws again, the prisoner groaning in pain. Claude studied the way his body writhed, no doubt already nursing fresh wounds and maybe a few broken bones.

"I don't know!" the man growled through gritted teeth, the soldiers' grip on his arms never easing.

"Yes, you do," the Minister countered, nodding for them to tighten the boot even more. "Don't lie to me, you filth!"

"I don't! They come from everywhere—they just meet there to be picked up!"

" _Where?_ Where do you go to gather them?" Nicolas stood over the man's bleeding face, danger burning in his gray eyes.

Keeping himself glued to the stone wall, Claude forced himself to turn away as he was unwilling to witness such viciousness. Despite the number of public executions performed, he had never been allowed to witness his father's methods of torture. Even now Claude had never grown very accustomed to watching his father and men inflict such torment upon others.

The man only screamed as the boot continued to crush his leg, convulsing madly. The sound of his agony pierced Claude's eardrums mercilessly, but he knew his father would not allow him to cover his ears. He wished in vain that this whole episode would end, only wanting to push through the dungeon door, and take flight up and out of this God-forsaken place of pain.

The Minister rolled his eyes and ordered the men to ease up on the weapon's pressure. The smuggler's breathing labored with some relief from less duress. Nicolas yanked on the man's hair fiercely, repeating, "Where do they gather?!"

Claude could see tears escaping the prisoner's strained eyes as he finally cried out defeatedly, "The market place Aux Pourceaux—that's where they are!"

Slamming the man's head back against the bench, the Minister instantly ordered, "Then that is where we'll go. Leave him here and we'll see if what he says holds up. And if it doesn't…" The judge's eyes pierced the man's own bloodshot ones, warningly remarking. "You will be very sorry."

The Minister's men took the liberty of chaining the smuggler to the blood-stained wall, his hands locked high above his head in rusty manacles.

As most of the soldiers began to venture out, Claude turned to follow them, only for a large hand to stop him by the collar of his tunic. "Claude, you stay here and wait until this matter is settled," his father sternly ordered.

" _Here?_ But shouldn't I come with you? Or go back home, or wait upstairs?" The last thing the boy wanted to do was be left in this hole with some criminal. "I-I don't think I should-"

"No," his father deadpanned. "If what he says is true and there are gypsies to be found in Aux Pourceaux, then I can't afford to let you get killed by a whole horde of them. Besides…" He lowered himself to whisper, "You're a child; he doesn't see you as a threat. If he has any more information, he might just let it slip. Keep your guard up and don't fall for any of his tricks. See if you can't get him to level with you."

"But I-" Claude stammered, craning his neck to see the bloodied man staring back hatefully at the both of them.

Rigidly seizing his son's arms, the Minister austerely ordered, "Just. Stay." The determined grimace on his face instantly petrified Claude. Before his son could argue, he disappeared with his mercenaries, slamming the metal door behind him. Reluctantly, Claude turned back around, barely meeting the confined man's eyes on the other side of the room. Silence pressed down on the space and his heartbeat thrummed loudly in his ears. Uncomfortably, he sat down on a hard bench against the wall and decided that it was best to just wait for the Minster's return.

"Your father is a sick man," the prisoner hoarsely remarked, breaking the silence. Claude's attention snapped up toward the man. " _Claude_ , is it?" the man asked, ignoring the blood beading down his face.

"And who are you?" Claude coldly returned, remembering his father's words of caution.

The man studied the boy with disdain, roughly coughing before answering, "Nestor."

Internally Claude prayed that his father or somebody would come back soon. The beaten, disheveled face of this criminal staring at him left him ill at ease.

"Do you know what your father is doing?" he asked Claude, his voiced raspy and breathing ragged.

"He's only arresting a few gypsies," Claude flatly answered, not wanting to indulge him in conversation. He agitatedly began drumming his fingers against the bench's surface, keeping his eyes averted.

"That's true…but do you understand _why_ I try to bring them into Paris?"

"To make money." Claude was now simply repeating propaganda spewed by his father on a regular basis. "You broke the law and that's why you're here, and why my father's going to put you away—or kill you for it."

The man Nestor nodded tauntingly, a faint smirk on his dirty face. "How old are you, Claude?"

"Eleven, why?" He furrowed his brow at the shackled man, detecting no good from such an inquiry.

"You're too young to understand," the man scoffed, turning his head to take note of his prison as if suddenly disinterested.

"Try me." Claude got up and inched forward, not about to let some good-for-nothing lawbreaker make a fool of him.

Nestor barely laughed, blood leaking from the side of his mouth and hissing in pain from his damaged leg. "I don't just bring gypsies to the city to make a few coins—there are easier ways of doing that. I do it because it's the right thing to do."

"But you're breaking the law—how is _that_ the right thing to do?" Claude challenged.

"Do you know what it's like for the gypsy people in other countries, let alone other parts of France?" There was a new edge in the man's voice as he icily stared at the boy. "They risk _everything_ , and trust people like me to bring them here because it's the best chance they have at something better. I don't care if I bear the brunt of it, just as long as they find safety."

"It's still breaking the law," Claude countered, absent-mindedly running his fingers over the damp stone wall behind him.

"Have you ever seen what your father does to those poor people? God forbid they get caught stealing food for their family—he's ready to send them to the stocks without a second thought! Doesn't it bother you to think about how he treats Roma people?"

Pursing his lips as he pondered, Claude shrugged and replied, "It's not my business to know what he does. He's just doing his job." Unbeknownst to the man, Claude had tried for years to block out much of the violence he had witnessed inflicted upon the gypsies, most of it by his father's hand.

"I've seen his men dumping them outside the city gates," Nestor ranted. "I've seen them all strung up by ropes in the square; I've seen them lined up for the chopping block—none of that bothers you?"

Claude couldn't help visualizing the same images he had been accustomed to seeing so often—the horrors his father forced him to see first-hand. He instinctively lied, "No, it doesn't. I'm used to seeing it. Besides, if they're really afraid of what he'll do, then they shouldn't be trying to come to Paris illegally. They broke the law, and now they're going to be punished—that's it!"

"Your father's laws are rigged against the gypsies. He'll always find a way to make sure the odds are stacked against them!"

"The law exists to protect people, even if it seems unfair sometimes." Now Claude felt as though it were his father speaking, rather than himself.

Nestor looked taken aback, shaken by such indifference by someone so young. "I'm guessing your parents don't let you mingle with them too often, do they? You probably don't know the first thing about them, apart from what they've filled your head with."

"I think I know enough about gypsies," Claude quickly bit back. Now his patience was running short arguing with this scum.

"Oh, please," Nestor sharply refuted, doubt heavily coloring his voice. "You're a sheltered, spoiled brat who doesn't know a thing about people besides what his parents tell him—let alone people that your old man tries to stamp out."

"That's not true!" Claude's fists tightened as he stepped closer, annoyance quickly turning into anger at this slight. Before he could stop himself, his furious impulse caused him to suddenly blurt out, "My best friend is a gypsy!" The boy froze, his breathing hitched as he realized what he just said.

The prisoner, shifting a little in his shackled form, forebodingly grinned. Much to the young man's discomfort, he let out a mocking laugh. "Is that so?" Nestor droned. "Imagine that: Minister Frollo's boy chumming around with the _gypsies!_ How'd the old tyrant take the news?"

Claude tensely rubbed his arm, not wanting to say anything more. He felt as though the very life had been sucked from his being with those faithful words. How could he let something so crucial slip—especially to some filthy criminal? He could already see the twisted look of outrage across his father's face when this man revealed Claude's secret friendship. Anxiously, he pushed his fingers into his hair, panic coursing through him.

"Hmm…he doesn't know, huh?" the man reasoned, his voice no longer taunting but almost sympathetic. Claude continued to say nothing, instead seating himself back on the old wooden bench away from the man. His hands clenching at his knees, he suddenly felt cold knowing his secret was out. He felt as though he couldn't breathe, his head spinning in confusion.

"Hey kid, don't keel over now," Nestor remarked. "I don't need the Minister thinking I murdered his son if you pass out now." He let out a nervous chuckle, wheezing a little.

Nails continuing to dig savagely into his knees, Claude began to tremble. His head was on fire—everything whirling around madly. How he wished he could take back those words and throw them into oblivion.

"Alright, look," Nestor evenly said, not wanting to see the boy have a breakdown of some kind. "How about this: I won't tell your old man about your little friend but…I need you to do something for me."

Claude glanced back up at him warily. "What do you want?"

"See if you can maybe change his mind on how he treats those people. At least try not to turn out like him; I don't think it's a secret that he's not exactly popular with the common folk."

"Just don't tell him," Claude hissed. "He can't find out about her."

"A _girl?_ " Despite the bruises, there was a look of evident astonishment on the man's face. After another groan from the soreness in his extremities, he then asked, "The son of the Devil's despot has a _gypsy girl_ for a friend?! How did you manage that?"

Claude wanted to say nothing more, going by his instinct to not trust this stranger. In any case, he already coaxed the truth out him—who was to say that he wouldn't mock him even more for knowing this secret? Hysterically he began muttering, "He can't find out, please, he can't find out—she's _dead_ if he does!"

"C'mon kid," Nestor encouraged. "I understand: you want to protect your friend even though your father would have your head if he finds out."

Claude braved to look up at the man, taken aback by this sudden change in tone. How could this lawbreaker possibly understand what he felt?

"That's exactly what _I've_ been doing," Nestor concluded. "Don't you see? We both have the same basic idea, we just act on them in different ways. We're two sides of the same coin!"

"I don't think so. And the law says…" Claude began mildly.

"The law can be wrong, kid," Nestor quickly whipped. "It can be flawed—it's written by man anyway. People like your father can write these nonsense laws and taut their titles like they're the salt of the earth…but at the end of the day, they know what they're doing is wrong. And when they die, they'll have someone else to answer to."

Claude considered both sides of this based on all that he heard and witnessed himself. His father always asserted that these laws were written for the protection of its citizens, and that to disobey man's law was to disobey God himself. On the other hand, he had never heard Celeste's people stop in listing their grievances against the city that was supposed to be their home. Even he had to admit, his father's laws did not exactly make life any easier for the Romani people.

The two sat in silence for a few passing moments, each thinking deeply about their conversation. Claude also began to wonder if his father would return soon.

"If you've got a gypsy for a friend, then you should know what it's like for them," Nestor continued, his manacles scraping against each other as he shifted a little. "You should know how they're suffering. And remember: the man behind all these injustices is _your father!_ Think of what that could mean: _you_ might be able to change his mind on how he treats them. You could make a difference and help your friend, Claude."

The boy couldn't help but snort a bit as he laughed, shaking his head. Nestor was evidently baffled by this sudden change in demeanor. Brushing back some of his black hair out of his face, Claude responded, "What makes you think that _I_ have any power? Just because he's my father, doesn't mean he cares about what _I_ think, or what I have to say."

"I don't think that's true. I mean you are his only son-"

"He doesn't," Claude harshly rebutted. "Even if I wanted to ask him to treat the gypsies fairly, he never listens to me. I'm _nothing_ to him."

Claude noticed that it almost looked as though disappointment colored the prisoner's face. Quickly, Claude defended himself again, "I can't do anything to help. Maybe the only thing they can do is follow the law and stay out of trouble."

"If the law doesn't seem to be helping, then maybe that shows it's time to change it. I take it you want to be Minister of Justice someday?"

Scratching his head, the boy muttered, "I don't know…maybe."

Nestor's chains rattled as he moved. "Then take note on the situation now, that way when you take office, you can change things for the better. Something your father can't—or _won't_ —do."

Claude had just about enough of listening to some stranger in custody telling him what to do. He suddenly heard his father's voice in his head: _If he has any more information, he might just let it slip._ Perhaps if he could extract something, the Minister might not think of him as so useless.

Exhaling, Claude tried to gather himself. If his father was here, he would simply beat the man into giving some answers…but perhaps there was a different approach.

"Maybe you're right," Claude falsely agreed. Folding his thin arms over his chest, he coolly said to Nestor, "So, was it only you that was sneaking in all those gypsies? That's impressive."

"Are you kidding? It would take a miracle for one man to get them all past the gates," Nestor elaborated.

"Then I'm sure my father's already locked them away if they didn't flee the scene, right?"

"Thankfully not. They got away, but I'm not sure how long they can keep their heads down."

Claude decided to keep playing the cunning card. "Then it won't be long. I can tell that you gave my father a fake location to give your friends some time to get away."

A wheezing cough escaped from Nestor, chains rattling even more. "Smart kid. I can't say but maybe I did."

"He's going to find them, and the rest of your gypsies. I bet you don't even have an actual hiding place. Probably hiding out under bridges and or some alleyway. If I know my father, he won't stop until he finds them."

"Not as though he can turn every stone in the city; Paris is only so big," the man retaliated.

"Exactly: Paris is only so big," Claude countered as he carelessly ambled around the dungeon's space. There must be some way to trick this scum into revealing the gypsies' location… "What if I try and guess where they might have gone, and you can tell me if I'm right?" he asked, carefully touching a pointed tip from the iron-spiked chair.

"Do you really think that I would tell _you_ of all people where they ran off to?" Nestor scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Maybe you're not as sharp as I thought."

Claude pursed his lips in annoyance. Pretending to be uninterested, he let his gaze travel up to the dark, moist ceiling as he replied, "Maybe. But think about it: if I knew something that he didn't, it would be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity."

Nestor looked at him almost with doubt. "Really?" he sarcastically began. "Would you really do that to your old man? Watch him scramble looking for a bunch of rogue gypsies when you could have easily led him to them? Why?"

"He already hates me more than anything," Claude answered indifferently, setting his trap into place. "I think it might just be fun to watch. So why shouldn't I?"

Nestor coughed before he laughed again. "Well, the apple definitely doesn't fall from the tree, does it? You're a sadistic little bastard, Claude, I'll give you that. Besides, who's to say that if I told you where they've gone, you won't just turn around and squeal?"

Claude realized that being sly was not cutting it. He evenly answered, "Maybe I can ask my friend about whether it's safe or not, maybe send a warning. After all, it's her people that my father's looking for. Do you know where there's another hiding place, just in case he finds the first one?"

The man still was very wary as he listened to Claude's proposal, not wholly at ease considering he was still the Minister of Justice's son.

"I care about my friend," Claude tried again, trying almost in vain to sway this criminal's mind. "She really is all I have."

"I don't believe that. Your father has this whole city under his thumb—how could you only have _one_ friend, and a gypsy at that?"

As much as it pained him to, Claude saw no other choice to get an answer than indulge a little. "I don't have many friends. Everyone picks on me, and my father hates that I can't fight back. And when he sees me after a fight, he's angry at me for losing, and he beats me into the ground. She doesn't care that I'm not strong, or that I like to read, or that my father is Minister…she's my best friend in the world. That's why I care about her, and why I need to protect her. Please, you have to help me. Just tell me where your gypsies have gone and where they can go. I promise I will pass word to her and her family."

Nestor studied the sincerity on this young boy's face, his pitiful expression pleading. Clearing his throat, he then asked, "This girl means that much to you? A _gypsy_ , right?"

Claude nodded, wringing his hands in thought. "Her family still doesn't like than I'm _gajo_ , but she's trying to change their minds. She says she wants me to be " _baktalo_ ", because friends look out for each other. Her name actually means "heavenly"."

A small sympathetic grin appeared on the man's face. " " _Baktalo_ "? _Happy_ , huh? She has a good heart, does she?"

Sitting back on the worn wooden bench opposite Nestor, Claude continued, "She's stood up for me a few times too, against the boys from my class."

"She fights too?!" A disbelieving laugh escaped the man, shaking his head and rattling his chains. "Those gypsy girls are something else, that's for sure! You must need all the help you can get if she's fighting your battles for you."

Claude's expression wanted to pout from such a jab. He didn't need some lawbreaker to mock his shortcomings too. "Well, it's not just that. I care about her more than anything and I-"

"It's alright, I get it." Nestor stopped him. "Scrawny kid that's the class target, father isn't exactly understanding, you take what you can get. And, hey, if she really seems like a good friend, I say never let her go. Besides, it's easy to see that your father isn't much of a caring man. I've actually heard something about you taking a little push down the stairs out in front of the Palace from him. But then again, I only heard that through the grapevine."

Claude glanced at his right arm, aware of the long dark scar running along the skin from said punishment. "It doesn't matter. But you understand now, so…will you just tell me where the gypsies have gone?"

Exhaling heavily, the man looked again at this pitiful boy. "If I tell you, you gotta promise me something, Claude. Understand?"

The boy's eyebrows rose in hope… _Got you,_ he thought deviously as the trap was about to spring. "Absolutely, just tell me."

"Tell your father," Nestor instructed. "That his laws against the gypsy people are hurting the city. That if more are allowed in, there'll be more revenue for the city. Doesn't King Charles want the city to thrive? He needs to lift his laws off them for the good of Paris."

The idea suddenly struck him. "They're just money to you?" Claude tried to hide the accusation in his voice. _Careful,_ he warned himself.

Nestor rolled his eyes. "I may make money off smuggling them into Paris, but it isn't as though their money goes to waste. I've paid a few from the guilds to take some under their wings and set them up with some work. Granted, not all of them are eager to but I try to help as best as I can. Plus, I need to be able to pay my men to help me with these transporting jobs. And besides, a man's got to eat! Money may be the "root of all evil", but it also makes the world go 'round. Look, every politician cares about their citizens' taxes, and your father is no different. I want these people to have the same opportunities as we do."

Before he could implement his mastery of rhetoric, Claude decided that the game was not over, and he needed to finish in order to win. "You're right," he lied. "And my father might consider that if it means more people to tax. He's always said there's no logical reason to let them in, but maybe he might listen to that."

"Well, those politicians are greedy types anyway. Hopefully he will."

Before the man lost his trust, Claude knew he had to act now. "So…where did you say they were hiding again? The sooner I learn, the sooner I can find out if they're safe."

"Right, right." Nestor barely leaned closer, his expression dark. "There's an apothecary named Stanislas on Rue de la Tacherie."

"Isn't that near the Place de Greve?" Claude seemed to recall wandering through the nearby streets during his afternoon strolls with Celeste. "Are they safe there?"

"Right near the marketplace. And Stanislas is a good man—nobody would ever suspect him of harboring gypsies. Pass word that there's a potter on Rue des Haudriettes where they move to."

Claude couldn't help but hide his near devilish smile. "Thank you, Nestor. As soon as my father comes back I'll pass word about what's going on." _Checkmate,_ he victoriously mused.

"I believe in you, kid." Nestor beamed. "Anyone who's willing to go around his corrupt judge of a father to help others can't be all bad."

Claude leaned back against the stone wall behind him, deep in thought. Was it underhanded that he was using this information to aid his father? _Celeste isn't the one getting hurt,_ he considered. _These are gypsies who broke the law—they need to be punished!_ He could picture his father's perpetually disapproving frown over him. Perhaps with this inside information, these lawbreakers will face the consequences of their misdeeds… _Maybe he might even be proud of me…_

Deciding he might as well, Nestor curiously inquired, "So tell me: how in the hell are you able to keep a gypsy girl for a friend without your father knowing? I mean the man has the whole of Paris in his palm."

Unsure how to answer, the boy shrugged. "I guess by just staying out of his way. He really doesn't care what happens to me."

"And how would he feel if he found out about your little girlfriend?" The man tested, eyebrows raised in question.

Claude could suddenly envision the streets lined with the city's gypsies all in chains, each one headed for the gallows in the city square. Every pair of eyes he can see stare back at him, silently accusing him for their plight, but especially those sweet hazel eyes of hers.

"Probably not well," Claude finally answered, shifting uneasily in his seat. "Maybe it helps that he doesn't pay much attention to me after all."

"I guess if you're willing to lie to the Minster's face, maybe she found herself a good friend too."

 _Hopefully,_ Claude pondered.

Minutes passed as the two sat opposite each other, lost in their own thoughts. Claude formulated how to relay the gypsies' location to his father, despite the idea of betraying his own friend's people wrenching his stomach.

Suddenly the sound of the rusty iron door at the top of the stairwell outside echoed, signaling that someone was approaching. Heavy footsteps marched quickly down towards the dungeon, causing Claude to leap from his seat and stand tall.

The metal door's lock clicked as the key turned it, swinging open as the Minister lugged inside with his soldiers in tow. "We scoured that place to no end and found _nothing!_ " the Minister feverishly recounted. He approached the prisoner, looming over him and gripping him by the stained shirt collar. "Perhaps you should think of another place they might be hiding, and _quickly._ "

"I've said all I know," Nestor reaffirmed, squirming in discomfort. "They've probably fled and found shelter somewhere else!"

Nicolas threw the man back against the damp stone ground. "They're vermin, and sooner or later they'll show themselves. And when they do…" He imitated a slitting motion as he moved a calloused thumb across his throat, indicating his ruthlessness. Turning back towards his shaken son, he lowly asked, "Claude, did you learn anything from this man?"

Claude's eyes jumped back to meet to tired red ones of Nestor, who leaned back exhaustedly against the wall. His eyes begged the boy to uphold his end of the bargain. Claude nodded to the Minister. "Father…have you considered rewriting the laws about gypsies?"

"What?" he replied in stupefied disbelief, furrowing his brows at the boy.

"It's just that…if you allow the gypsy people to enter the city, they would be able to work. And if they work, then they would be able to pay taxes, and-"

"Oh, for God's sake—I don't have time for this nonsense!" the Minister interrupted, shoving his son away with a harsh push to his forehead. "You know as well as I do that they are nothing but a bunch of _thieving dogs_. No amount of work or leniency we give them will _ever_ make them change what they are!"

"But…maybe if you changed the laws, just a little, there wouldn't be so many gypsies to hunt down and arrest," Claude continued mildly. "Maybe they'd change with the laws if you-"

"Are you telling me that you didn't learn _anything_ from him?" Minister Frollo tested, pointing towards the shackled man. "I left you here for an hour, and you managed to procure _nothing?_ Or rather, the only thing you managed to absorb is some ridiculous notion that the law itself is to blame for their misbehavior?" He ordered his guards to release him from his manacles and take hold of him.

Claude wrung his hands skittishly, fearing the man might strike him right then and there. He couldn't stop himself from stammering a choppy response. "I mean…I almost did, but…I just…"

"Are you completely useless?!" he thundered at his son, turning back towards him. "You can't do the simplest of tasks, can you?"

Nicolas's words felt like daggers against his son. Despite how frequent such abuses were, Claude could still never listen to them without the horrible sense of inadequacy devouring him. Inside he felt the anger threatening to snap like a tourniquet wound too tight. Claude could feel Nestor's eyes pitying him as he listened to the Minister degrade his son, even though he was the one in chains. Other people's sympathy made his skin crawl with revulsion, causing him to ball his hands into fists.

His father's cruel words didn't stop. "I don't even know why I put the _slightest_ bit of faith in you, when all you are capable of doing is disappointing me at every turn-"

"Have you tried Rue de la Tacherie?" Claude could not believe he had just interrupted his own father. The man's endless prodding had pushed him to let out the location. He chose to ignore the shocked look on Nestor's face as the boy blurt out such information.

"Tacherie?" his father repeated, looking almost astounded. Inching closer to the boy, he squeezed his arm tightly. "That's what you heard?"

Claude prayed that what he learned was indeed true, taking the leap of faith and answering, "Yes. There's a shop there where they're hiding—some apothecary."

" _You little son of a bitch!"_ Nestor thrashed furiously as the Minister's men held their grasp on him, preventing him from running over to throttle the boy. Manic hatred colored his face dark red as he leered at father and son viciously.

"If that's so, they we haven't a moment to lose if we're going to find them. Take him back to his cell. If what he says is true this time, I want him gone with the rest of his little compatriots," the Minister ordered.

"The boy's a snake!" Nestor shouted as he kicked and thrashed under the guards' grips. "He's friends with them—he has a gypsy pal! He's a lying little snake in the grass!"

Claude was struck by the frenzied rage on the criminal's face, his dark eyes piercing the boy with absolute loathing. As his father's men carried him off towards the cells, Nestor managed to shout out, "You'll get yours, you little bastard!"

The door slammed shut with a loud bang, leaving Claude and the Minister standing in silence in middle of the cold dungeon. The remaining soldiers dare said nothing, fearing what their leader might do.

Even over the sound of his heartbeat pounding in his ears, Claude could still hear Nestor's curses as he was dragged the corridor towards a cell. He looked up unsurely at his father, fearful. He waited for what seemed like an eternity for the man to turn around and seize him, especially after Nestor's final comment. The Minister simply stared at the iron door, brows furrowed in thought.

"Hmm…his kind are quite interesting, aren't they?" Nicolas pondered aloud.

Claude tried to suppress the trembling that rattled through him. "What…what do you mean?" the boy uttered, terrified of how his father might react.

"When a lawbreaker sees that their time is running short, eventually they will start spinning all kinds of drivel as means of deflection from their own crimes. In this case, he tried to drag you into some hogwash story now that he's been caught, along with all his little cohorts."

"Did you believe him?" Claude asked, hands continuing to shake at his sides.

"He wouldn't have used such hysterics if he had been lying, so there's reason to trust that I might just find his rogue gypsies. I know that last half is absurd; I know that even _you_ aren't foolish enough to align yourself with their kind. But he was, and now he is going to pay dearly for it."

Claude frowned as he thought hard about what he had just done. True that man was not innocent—and neither were such gypsies in hiding—but there was something to be felt as he damned a few who only wanted a better life in Paris.

"Chin up; you're helping to bring a smuggler to justice," Nicolas commented as he examined his son's unhappy frown. "What's wrong with you?"

Hesitantly, Claude answered, "It's just that…that man, Nestor, he said that what he does is to help others, because no one else will. He says that the city laws are wrong in how it treats the gypsies. Maybe…maybe he could be right."

Nicolas leered down at his son. "First of all, that _criminal_ is nothing—all of them are. Second, do not dwell on this; that man flagrantly broke the law and won't be missed. He may blather on about how his work is so noble and selfless by smuggling people into Paris, but if that were so, he wouldn't have been found with purses lined with pennies and silver. He doesn't give a damn about those people any more than any other fool in this city—all he cares about is his payment. He and every other crook are one in the same, remember that, my boy."

Claude breathed a sigh of relief, happy that the words of some fugitive were hardly of meaning to the Minister. However, now he was uncertain on how he should be feeling now that he had sent Nestor and so many gypsies to their fate. But was that not the whole point of this little endeavor from the moment his father found him?

"Go home," he evenly instructed his son. "I have a certain shop on Rue Tacherie that needs my attention."

"You mean that's all?" Claude asked, noticing that the screams on the other side of the door of the cells had stopped. "You're really going to keep looking for them?"

"Claude, you'll learn that when you're seeking out fugitives, sometimes you have to take any leads you can. And your job is done here, so we'll just have to wait and see if his word holds up this time. And if not…I will keep questioning that man, even if I have to extract the information slowly and _painfully_. There's an iron chair with his name on if he deceives us one more time."

Claude had seen such an instrument of torture before, unable to imagine the agony of a thousand iron spikes piercing a person's every inch as they fought the urge to confess. He pictured the beaten and broken Nestor wailing in unbelievable pain should his father have any say in it.

Before he could put any more graphic thoughts in his head, the Minister nudged Claude forward, guiding him out of that sickening dungeon. Upstairs in the Palace foyer, Nicolas ordered his son to return home again as to ready his continued gypsy hunt.

As Claude walked home, he studied the various beggars lining the walls of buildings, many of them gypsies. _You did the right thing,_ he mentally reassured himself. _We made a deal, and I did what he asked and tried to convince Father about the laws._ And yet, why did he feel so unhappy?

 _The laws don't seem to be helping the gypsies much,_ he reasoned as he walked by an old man wrapped in a threadbare cloak, weakly waiting for strangers' charity. _But Nestor also seemed to make quite a bit of money from helping so many of them._

 _One thing is certain,_ he reminded himself, trying to ignore so many of the impoverished gypsies he strolled past. _You cannot tell Celeste about this. If she finds out what you've done…_ He shuddered to think of it.

 _Remember: Nestor broke the law, and that's that. Anything that happens to those gypsies is not my fault. After all, they got themselves caught._

In an attempt to distract himself from these daunting thoughts, Claude recited his class lessons over again in his head as he continued his walk home.

X

Claude sat quietly at the small desk in his bedchamber, Prudentius's book propped open on the lecterned stand. He turned the little witch stone charm around between his fingers, lost in thought. Occasionally he would look over to the book's illustration of Patience and Anger, both personified and battling. _Anger can't defeat Patience,_ he noted, examining the depiction of Anger stabbing her sword to herself. _Anger is_ _defeat…_

The darkness surrounding him (barely combated by a few candles) did not put his heart at rest, rather it only intensified his anxiety. As he stared blankly at the wooden floor, his mind still raced around on his actions today.

 _Was it the right thing to do?_ He repeatedly questioned, seeing Nestor spitting his curses contemptuously as his father's men wrenched him away into blackness.

 _Maybe they won't even find any gypsies,_ he hopefully countered. _Nestor was a criminal—he's bound to be a liar anyway. He probably just gave us another made up location. If so, I'll never have to do this again._

 _But what if there are gypsies?_ Such a question had circled through his mind dozens of times since he had left the Palace of Justice. Holding the little memento from Celeste didn't help soothe him much either.

A sudden knock at the door jolted him out of his musings. Quickly throwing the stone back in its pouch, Claude chucked it far across the room into a dark corner. He scooped his little pater noster from the desk surface into his hand before shakily answering, "Yes?"

To his dismay, the person entering was one whom he hardly wanted to see now. As Minister Frollo entered, Claude obediently stood up, hanging onto his prayer beads tightly in his hand.

"Always with your nose to the grindstone, aren't you?" Nicolas remarked. "You can finish the Lord's Prayer in a moment. I have news for you regarding your friend, the smuggler."

"What happened?" Claude's heartbeat raced now, especially considering how collected his father was. He expected the man to be bellowing indignantly for another "gypsy ruse"; if he was this calm, it could only indicate bad news.

Scratching at his beard, the Minister placidly answered, "He was telling the truth: we combed through that shop and found a whole cellar of gypsies. If only you could have seen those little saucer-eyed dogs as we slammed the manacles down on them. Of course, a few were just a tad too…how shall I say this? _Unruly_ , and didn't stand much of a chance against my men."

Claude's breath hitched at this tale, picturing his father's soldiers brutalizing numerous gypsies remorselessly and a terrified old man watching his shop be destroyed. "I…how many?" he meekly asked the man.

"Dead? Only about four or five of them, but they were too reckless to be left alive. Altogether, there was a good fourteen of them. The rest are waiting back at the Palace, and of course, their trials will be brief and far from forgiving."

Gritting his teeth as he soaked in such information, Claude knew that he had to ask. "What about Nestor?"

Giving a small amused chuckle the Minister folded his hands behind his back. " _That man_ is no more. Don't even offer him such a courtesy as using his name. Scum like him deserve to die in obscurity. I'm sure even his cohorts would like to forget him after this whole ordeal. So, he served his purpose and was deemed unnecessary to keep around any longer, as you can imagine."

Claude felt his heart drop, understanding full well that the blood of a few people now stained his hands. He felt sick at the idea, his stomach twisting in knots. He knew that he couldn't show any sign of weakness now, not after such a victory for his father. He mentally ordered himself to keep from shedding any tears of guilt. Weakly, he replied, "That's… good news. I'm glad you found them all."

"Just imagine it," his father continued. "Each and every one of them is going to be wearing a new rope necklace by the time I finish with them."

Claude tried to hide the disgusted grimace that began contorting his face. He couldn't stomach any more vivid images. Unable to find any other stilted words of agreement, he simply nodded, his face now blank.

"I must say, I'm impressed, my boy," Nicolas commented, a slight taunt in his voice. "I don't know what you said to that man, but somehow you managed to get a location out of him. My men spent the day beating the living hell out of him—not a word. You sat with him for an hour at best, and he sang like a bird, as if his friends were nothing. Pray tell, how _did_ you accomplish such a feat?"

Claude looked up at the pair of gray eyes that waited for an answer. There was no use in trying to evade it, that was certain, as his father was not a person keen on deflection of the truth. He considered his answer very carefully, gripping the prayer beads in his hand tightly for strength. "I convinced him that he could trust me, and that I would keep it a secret. And that I would try to help change the laws for gypsies."

The Minister laughed cruelly. "Nobody could be so naïve to think that such a thing was possible—the idiocy! It's no surprise that he could keep such company."

Claude bit his lip to keep himself from lashing out as the dread continued to wring his stomach painfully. Every horrid detail of his father's story was another blow to the gut. How he wished that he could deafen himself if that meant he could not hear any more of this.

The man noted the conflicted expression on Claude's face. Sneering, he bitterly said, "Don't tell me you actually feel sorry for him. Any bit of empathy you hold for that lowlife, you destroy it immediately!"

Claude rubbed his arm, shyly responding, "He thought I could help make the city a better place, even for gypsies…"

"Here's something you might have failed to realize: that man was using you, Claude. The only reason he gave away his little friends was because he knows who your father is. If he gave you vital information, he would want something in return: in this case, thinking that you had any sway over _my_ judgment as Minister. The very idea paints him as nothing more than some foolish delinquent, and he paid for his crimes…but that is in the hands of God now. Do you understand?"

Nicolas's words hung heavy in Claude's mind. The boy began reevaluating everything he had heard today, still at odds over who was right. His stomach had never ceased in its nervous churning.

"Well, anyway," Nicolas continued, stepping forward. "Credit where credit is due, so well done. Because of you, a few gypsies were thwarted from polluting our city." Unexpectantly he patted the boy on his shoulder, causing Claude to flinch a bit as he was not used to this kind of praise. The man gave a small nod and turned to exit, leaving Claude alone in his room's eerie silence.

X

Drawing his knees up to chest, Claude stared blankly at the cold Seine flowing before him as he sat on the bank of the Place de Greve. He paid no attention to the early spring air, his mind too far gone still thinking about what he had done. Occasionally he would glance at the numerous ships docked in the harbor, but never taking much note of them. People passed by him, never acknowledging him, or he them.

A voice startled him. _"I can almost always find you here!"_ Craning his neck around, he felt his heart leap at the sight of Celeste approaching him. He promptly looked away, diverting his attention back to ground and away from her gaze.

The young girl plopped down next to her friend, instantly detecting something bothering him by the furrow of his brow. Giving him a light nudge in the elbow, she asked, "What's wrong?"

Claude brushed some hair out of eyes before bleakly answering, "Did you hear about the gypsies they found on Rue Tacherie?"

The girl nodded. "My parents told me. That poor man's shop too, I heard the soldiers destroyed it. We couldn't leave the Court for a few days because we were afraid of your father. And they said it was too risky if he saw any gypsies."

"I'm…I'm really sorry about that." Claude couldn't bring himself to look at the girl, digging his nails into his arm. He tried focusing on the sounds of carts being wheeled and people's voices mixing to keep him from bursting with regret.

The girl simply picked up a small twig near her and began scribbling in the dirt. "What for? It wasn't your fault," Celeste replied, gazing over at the docks and bustling activity.

 _Don't say anything,_ Claude mentally reminded himself. He had come too far to tell her the truth of his involvement in the incident. To admit to it now would undoubtedly put a rift between them, if not end their friendship. No, he would have to keep it to himself.

The two sat wordlessly for some time before Claude suddenly asked, "Do you know the story of Saint Sébastien?"

Celeste shook her head in response, prompting Claude to begin the tale. "He was a soldier for the Romans but was secretly a Christian. My mother told me that he joined the army so he could save other Christians from being killed by the Roman emperor. He would bring them food and pray with them, even though they were going to be killed. And the emperor found out and ordered him to be tied to a tree and shot with arrows. My mother says that he was saved by another saint, and after she healed him, he went back to the emperor and showed him he was still alive. He had him killed this time, but Sébastien became a saint."

Turning to see Celeste, he noticed her inquisitive expression, as if asking why he would tell such a story. Claude responded, "He's always been one of my favorite saints; sometimes I look up to him when I'm afraid. It's almost as if his story's lesson is…sometimes it's dangerous to be who you are, and who you become friends with, but you're willing to take that risk. My father can't stand your people, and I'm going around his back to be friends with you. Even though he could kill you, your family, and even me…"

Celeste looked discouraged at him, hazel eyes now saddened as to what he might mean. "Do you not want to be friends anymore?"

"Of course I do," Claude quickly retorted. "I just mean is that I know what could happen if my father ever finds out about us, but…I just want us to stay together, even if it's risky. Just like Saint Sébastien and the Christians."

Celeste smiled at her friend and sweetly replied, "Then we will—like Saint Sébas and the Christians." Her short words were enough to ease even a small amount of guilt lingering in Claude's heart, if only for a moment.

X

 ***A/N: To anyone still reading this, sorry it's been awhile-school, work, you know how it is. Plus, whenever I got writer's block I'd just work on my crappy drawings (I even sketched up a pic of little Claude climbing a tree on my DA!)**

 **Also I thought I'd take my time writing a quality chapter instead of some short, incoherent garbage. I seriously need to crank it out with this story or else the others ones can't move forward.**

 **So, hope you guys enjoy some (hopefully) character development and thanks for reading!**


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